


Required

by xxsnailxx



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, M/M, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-31
Updated: 2019-04-05
Packaged: 2019-07-04 22:51:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 22,861
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15851049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xxsnailxx/pseuds/xxsnailxx
Summary: “Back the fuck off, Riddle.”Tom’s heart stops abruptly in mid-beat. Did the new kid just— He opens his mouth, but slams it shut quickly. No. He has to say something non-generic. He settles for, “It is common courtesy to speak your first words to strangers with a certain level of politeness, Harry.”The boy doesn’t so much as blink, and Tom is hit with the soul-crushing realisation that maybe, probably, his soulbond isn’t reciprocated.There’s a chamber in the Department of Mysteries that’s [quote] Sorta like the Room of Requirement in Hogwarts except— [endquote] it doesn’t operate on your requirements, but rather your soulmate’s. Harry and Hermione rush into it in hopes of finding a medical kit (anything to help their injured friends, really) and end up somewhen else.





	1. Shooting Star

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Caty from the Tomarry Discord server (Cutie_314 on ao3) for betaing :3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Harry grows up and makes friends, and discovers his soulmate(s), and prepares to meet the other half of his soul. Not necessarily in that order.

Eleven-years-and-a-day-old Harry traces the words on his wrist in newfound wonder. _Avada Kedavra_.

He traces them, wonders if his Soulmate writes with magic, because surely nobody’s handwriting can be so neat? He’s put a ruler to it, once, and remembers realising the arms of the ‘K’ make a perfect right angle. All the ‘a’s look identical. And Harry is sure the words are actually — what’s the word for _it_? — italicised. Harry likes the ‘K’ so much, he changed his ‘K’ to look like it; uses a ruler to draw the arms whenever he gets the opportunity to. It’s just unfortunate that ‘K’ isn’t a common letter, and that he seldom has a sharp-edged ruler on him.

He used to say the words to himself all the time, in the darkness and quietness of his cupboard, wondering how each of the ‘a’s are pronounced, rolling his tongue around the ‘vra’, fantasising about what they  _mean_.

And now, he knows. They are magic words, of course! He always thought they were strange.

He wonders briefly if all magic spells sounded so similar to _Abracadabra_ , or if maybe his soulmate only says it as a mocking rendition of the muggle ‘spell’. Either way, Harry can’t wait.

* * *

Harry learns on the train that some people have more than one set of words (one on each wrist), and not everyone has a ‘reciprocated bond’. He says one set of Hermione’s words, for example, but he doesn’t have her first words on him.

He feels both great and terrible when he learns that he’s said one set of Ron’s words, too. ( _Great and terrible_ , that reminds him of what Ollivander said.) Well, at least neither of them have each others’ words…

This means they would be _his_ best friends, right? Harry’s always wanted friends.

* * *

Somehow, everyone finds out very quickly that Harry had spoken both Ron’s and Hermione’s words, neither of them had spoken his, and that the two of them haven’t each others’ words. Might have something to do with them shouting about it in the Great Hall during lunch one day. (They were fighting, but the moment attention is drawn to Harry, they’re all best of friends again.)

This particular true rumour brings even more attention to the wristband Harry wears. Several times, he’s had to rush to class while grabbing his wrist in his other hand because Malfoy or some other Slytherin has hexed his wristband off. He only gets some semblance of peace about it when Professor McGonagall finally takes pity on him and offers to charm it for him so only he can remove it.

It doesn’t stop random people from coming up to him to say the weirdest things, or just their names (and he’s pretty sure at this point that some of them have spoken to him for the first time more than once), but at least he no longer has to worry about them actually getting his words right only because they’ve seen them.

* * *

Harry finds out what his words mean over the Christmas break.

It was just another night of aimless wanderings, after Dumbledore had moved the Mirror, when Harry found himself in the library. He thought to himself, if the first words somebody is going to say to him were a spell, he’d definitely like to know what it does beforehand. Why not, really?

A quick search with the archiving enchantment the library uses, and Harry finds his answer. He can’t help but to stare for a minute; a moment.

An eternity, really.

Because it’s a bit hard to deny the truth, when all five of the top results say the same thing.

_The Killing Curse. An Unforgivable. Green light. Only known survivor—_

He flees.

* * *

Harry is not the same after.

He announces one day, during a fight with Malfoy, that he’s figured out who his soulmate is and the blonde would do well to stuff the subject back into that rubbish dump he calls a mouth.

He tells five, maybe six, of the people attempting to say the right words, that if they weren’t going to say anything half as damaging or rude as the words on his wrist, they should just scram and go introduce themselves to Crabbe. Maybe hope the idiot can match their spoken names to the alphabets on his wrist.

He gets his peace afterwards.

(He doesn’t, not really.)

His friends learn quickly to avoid the topic like the plague.

* * *

Harry screams, “Haven’t you ruined my life enough?” at Voldemort, and the man— can he even be called that?— does nothing but laugh. Seems like not only is Voldemort the other half of his soul, it’s unreciprocated. He doesn’t want the bond, anyway, but it sucks completely to know the man gets to stomp into his life, take half his soul, curse his parents to oblivion, and doesn’t have the common decency to reciprocate a soul bond.

He doesn’t tell Dumbledore.

(He figures, later, in the comforts of his bed and the Invisibility Cloak, that maybe he’d babbled at Voldemort as an infant, and Voldemort’s soulmark is nothing but baby speech.

It’s almost unheard of, after all, for someone with only one set of words to have an unreciprocated bond… Considering he’s left words on Ron and Hermione, and a few others who claim their words are ‘ _yes_?’, though, he thinks he just might be— no. Voldemort has baby words and that’s that.)

He doesn’t tell anyone.

* * *

He does, however, tell Tom Riddle.

It just slips out, one day, when everything has piled up around and above Harry and he feels like he’s drowning in frustration. (Some part of him knows Tom’s handwriting is eerily familiar. Maybe that is why.) _My soulmate murdered my parents, and I have the incantation of the killing curse around my wrist._ It serves, at least, to heighten Tom’s interest in him.

Made him feel special, even if it was for something as horrible as having a megalomaniac for a soulmate.

_He didn’t react to my first words to him._

(Oh, Tom was _definitely_ interested.)

* * *

“Tom?”

Tom tilts his head contemplatively. “Funny, I always found that strange. Huh.”

“Tom, we have to get out, there’s a—”

“I know, I know, Harry. But this is so much more fascinating, is it not? I did wonder, you know? Especially since you keep calling me ‘Tom’. Do you think you can die, now?”

“Tom, what are you on about?”

Tom grins, and that’s Harry’s first hint that something _really_ isn’t right. It’s the way his dark eyes slant slightly, the way the ominous curl of his lips shows just a little too much of his incisors. The way his magic seems to flare. “Oh, jolly, I messed up, didn’t I? I mean, _Avada Kedavra_.”

(… So it turns out, Voldemort’s words aren’t ‘ _Googoo gaa_.’

He should have known, from the first time he saw Tom’s name on the Diary. Even if his name doesn’t have a ‘K’.)

“Tell you what,” Tom says, all cheerful, while Harry’s fighting the Basilisk to his death. “You promise to put the Diary in a safe place — Gringotts works — and I’ll release my hold on the girl, tell little Brutus here to go home, and we can all live happily ever after.”

* * *

Harry doesn’t tell anyone about his words after that, but it becomes apparent that Professor Lupin already knows. So does Snape, by the way. And Dumbledore, and by extension, McGonagall. And the escaped serial killer that’s supposedly Voldemort’s right-hand man? He knows, too.

His boggart is Tom Riddle, with bare wrists.

(“Oh, he had words,” is all a mildly-amused Dumbledore says in response to a desperate Harry’s begs to tell him _anything_ about Tom Riddle.)

* * *

When Harry asks Professor Lupin to teach him the Patronus Charm, he receives a lecture.

Summarily: “The Patronus Charm, it’s almost soul magic. No one knows how true the sayings are, but they say only those with completed soul bonds can cast it.”

As if Harry would let _Voldemort_ stop him from learning the _Patronus Charm_.

He doesn’t. Despite Professor Lupin’s warnings that it might not be possible, Harry does it, through sheer determination.

And he smiles, months later, at the stag. _His_ stag. A sign, he hopes, that maybe his and Voldemort’s fates aren’t so irreversibly entwined, after all.

(“ _The Patronus Charm_ ,” Sirius Black breathes, voice filled to the brim with horror and fascination; despair and hope. “But that— it should be impossible.”)

* * *

When Harry breaks down after Moody’s first class (throughout which the man’s magical eye eyes his wrist suspiciously), Hermione reveals that she’s already guessed. He can’t be too surprised — he does have a part of her, after all. They tell Ron, in a private, silenced corner.

(By some miracle of luck, the fact that the words on Harry’s wrist are _Avada Kedavra_ fails to register with Voldemort. Even though Pettigrew, and Crouch Jr., and Snape have reported it to him.)

* * *

Voldemort rises out of the cauldron, naked, and not a letter is to be seen on his wrists.

(Or anywhere else on his alabaster skin, _not_ that Harry checked.)

Whatever the first words Harry says to him post-resurrection are, they’re not familiar to the man, either.

* * *

They’re at the Ministry, and they’re running in a dark corridor. There’s a flash of a curse and a shout of pain from Ron, who falls. Another flash that barely misses Harry. He makes a split-second decision, to lure the Death Eaters away from Ron.

“Split up,” he orders, just loud enough for all of his friends to hear. “Run far. Keep their attentions off Ron.”

He enters the first room that calls to him. (A bad idea in retrospect.) Hermione squeezes in and shuts the door behind her, panting heavily.

A _Lumos_ informs them that this room, according to the label on the door, is named the Room of Requirement. That’s great. Familiar names and all that.

 _I need to help my Soulmate_ , he thinks determinedly. That’s stretching it a bit far, since Ron isn’t _exactly_ his Soulmate, but—

There’s a sharp pull at his navel, like a portkey but _sharper_ , and a sudden nausea, and he lands, with Hermione, in exactly the same room. “Well, that was strange.”

It’s strangely quiet outside. Might be a bait, but Harry is a Gryffindor, so he reaches for the door anyway. He stops when he hears murmurs.

(The door opens, anyway.)

A team of Unspeakables with clipboards and wands enter the room, like there isn’t a whole horde of manic Death Eaters outside, cursing the pants off anyone in their range.

“I’m the Head Unspeakable, and I see you’ve been Required,” one of them says, going straight to business. “Ben Greengrass.”

“What do you mean, we’ve been Required?” Hermione, ever the curious cat, demands. Harry can’t say he’s ungrateful. Of all the questions to ask, though.

Greengrass, on the other hand, is terribly unimpressed. “You entered a room in the Department of Mysteries without knowing its function.”

“We were under attack!” Harry protests, like he wouldn’t have done something like that under any other circumstances. “Besides, there’s a Room in Hogwarts, too, and we thought—”

One of the Unspeakables coughed. He’s amused. It’s an amused cough.

“What does this room do?” Hermione finally asks. “Did it transport us somewhere safe? We have to get back—”

The amused Unspeakable deigns to reply with, “It’s sorta like the Room of Requirement in Hogwarts except—”

“It doesn’t operate on your requirements, but rather your Soulmate’s.”

Oh. They’ve been _Required_ indeed.

“ _He’s_ my soulmate,” Hermione says, purposefully, hoping against hope that they haven’t just been transported to God-knows-where because Harry’s Soulmate _Required_ them.

Like Tom fucking Riddle has any right Requiring them anywhere.

“Don’t panic,” Greengrass says, “but we suspect you’ve been transported through time. Right now, it’s the 3rd of June, 1943.”

“Don’t panic,” Harry echoes numbly, “but I’ve been transported some 50 years back, and Fuckamort is now the same age as me.”

( _He can’t go back to where he used to be—_ )

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was mostly touch-and-go, because. uh. reasons. Next chapter the tone changes suddenly and significantly, describing every literal second of Harry's day.
> 
> Actually I've written a multichap more than once, and I started writing this a while back but I didn't post because I knew I was going to compulsively change the plot every five minutes. So. Uh. I've got a couple of chapters written but who knows when they'll be posted. (Btw, clicking the kudos button, the bookmark button, the subscribe button or the comment box may or may not cause my conscience to remind me that posting is a thing orz)


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which something (the plot?) starts brewing in the background.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ooooof, thanking Caty for checking this over again :3 Any and all remaining mistakes are my own.

The first coherent thought he has, after, is that he wouldn’t even be surprised if it turns out he meets Voldemort— _Riddle_ , he reminds himself — again, before whenever he meets Riddle next. (He’s pretty sure this is it, though. His once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to absolutely _ruin_ Riddle for the curse on his wrist.)

The Unspeakables insist Harry and Hermione attend Hogwarts. Soulmates and all that bull. They have slightly more than a couple of months to think up a convincing backstory and catch up with their studies, since Hogwarts had closed early this year. Something about a death and the ongoing war.

They don’t even have to take their OWLs, jolly. It was auto-promotion, after Hogwarts closed early last week. (This also means Harry has to study as many subjects for NEWTs as he did for OWLs, but, well. You win some, you lose some.)

They go for the obvious. Harry and Hermione Granger are cousins, and have been displaced due to Grindelwald. (Real convenient, that guy.) Hermione’s Muggle-born. Her father’s sister is a Muggle-born witch who fucked a pureblood and gave birth to Harry. Harry’s been orphaned from a young age and taken in to live with the Grangers, away from whoever the hell was responsible for his parents’ death.

He looks too obviously like a Potter, but they would refuse to comment on who his father is. They wouldn’t even say his father’s dead. Let them wonder.

Harry strongly suspects they’d meet Hermione’s soulmate here, in the 1940s. That would suck terribly because then they’d never be able to go home. He hopes they don’t, but somehow his luck doesn’t work like that.

* * *

Things go pretty uneventfully from then on. (The calm before the storm, as the saying goes.) Harry and Hermione are sent to live in Hogwarts to justify their familiarity with the castle, and because they really don’t have anywhere else to go.

They’re introduced to Dippet, Dumbledore, Slughorn, Merrythought, Kettleburn, and a thousand other professors and staff. There are about a hundred magic-using caretakers. Makes one wonder where Hogwarts’ funds have gone in the next fifty years, that they can only afford Filch and his cat.

Hiring DADA professors, possibly. It seems the curse has not yet been placed.

(Harry can’t help but wonder, through it all, why Riddle hadn’t been allowed to stay for the summer.)

* * *

The 1st of September arrives in a flurry of magic as the castle is prepared to receive the students. It’s surreal, feeling the castle switch gears abruptly, the idyllic atmosphere turning hectic.

Hermione doesn’t notice. She’s been busy studying _history_ of all things in the library. Everyday, she updates Harry on random tidbits, like ‘ The Chamber of Secrets was opened last year — that’s why they closed the school. They couldn’t find her body, though,’ and ‘Triwizard Tournament — mostly taboo,’ and ‘Any law that’s half-related to the war from the 1970s to 80s, feign absolute ignorance. You don’t know anything about the laws regarding Dark Magic and other traditions,’ and ‘You really should read up on Grindelwald.’

He’s gonna mess up somehow, he knows it.

* * *

Harry and Hermione stand awkwardly at the back of the Great Hall while the students stream in. They attract a few strange looks and whispers, but nothing they’re unaccustomed to. Then, the first-years file in. (It’s a tradition that’s been here since Before Dumbledore, apparently.)

“Before we sort the first-years,” Dippet says after the Hat’s song, “we have two transfer students. Harry and Hermione Granger are sixth-years. All who do not wish to be hexed unpredictably would be advised not to ask about their family. Harry.” He gestures to the stool.

Harry realises, too late, that they have not discussed which Houses they would go to. He has his suspicions about the Hat’s intentions, though.

He takes a deep breath, lifts his chin, and marches to the front of the Hall. Receives the Hat from Dumbledore, turns around.

Keeping his eyes firmly on the students — _you’re entering a den of snakes, **show no weakness**_ — he can’t help scanning the sea of faces for his Soulmate. Can’t help the sharp clench of his heart when he does find him, because Harry doesn’t deserve this. Doesn’t deserve a Soulmate who’s so absurdly good-looking, who’s, quite candidly, a genius. Doesn’t deserve a Soulmate whose first words to him were _Avada Kedavra_.

He resolves, once again, to make sure Riddle’s words are just as terrible, just as rude; the possibility of a Happily Ever After be damned. Harry is petty, and the world would do well to remember that the next time it attempts killing him.

With his eyes firmly on his Soulmate’s handsome features he slams the Hat onto his head. (It’s still too large, still covers his eyes.) Immediately, he is greeted by the familiar voice of the Sorting Hat.

‘My, my, my.’ It chuckles. (It _chuckles_ , the nerve of it!) ‘You know where you’re going.’ He doesn’t get a chance to slip in a snide remark before it declares, “SLYTHERIN!”

Calmly, determinedly not allowing any of his thoughts about his new tie and crest show on his features, Harry removes the Hat and stands up. He makes his way to the table just a serenely, forcing himself not to look at Hermione and beg her to join him. Parselmouth or not, the snakes’ den is a dangerous place.

Especially since the Heir of Slytherin himself is there.

Harry walks deliberately slowly — he has his sights on the near end of the table, it’s the least suspicious place to sit. It would bring the least attention to himself.

He’s got a problem, though, that takes form in the shape of a handsome prefect. Said prefect should really be sitting at the centre of the table, at the _king’s_ seat, not the _outcast’s_ seat.

(It’s a strategic move. He wants to be the first to assess the newbies. Harry knows that.)

Said prefect has his eyes on Harry, studying him contemplatively. Something in his expression makes Harry decide that, Screw it, he should really get this over with before he says something decidedly not-rude on accident.

He marches on confidently, taking a seat right opposite Riddle (and averting his eyes), just as the Hat announces, yet again, “SLYTHERIN!”

Someone scoffs, but nobody in his vicinity says a word as they slide down the bench to make space for Hermione. Apparently, they wish to ensure _both_ of them hear the insults.

“You’re not Mudbloods, surely?” a boy — a Black, Harry strongly suspects — asks disdainfully. He immediately receives the full brunt of Hermione’s glare.

“You’re not _inbred_ , surely?” The word is said with so much icy contempt, that it may as well have been something absurd like _apple_ , and Harry would still have to hold back a flinch. He gulps at the sharp tone.

Black-probably recoils visibly, and the girl beside him laughs. “Oh, Mudblood or not, I like you. Lucretia Black. I’m a sixth year, too.”

“I’m _yours_ ,” Black-probably says hoarsely, gazing at Hermione meaningfully. As though he hadn’t just shot her the most embarrassingly cheesy first words in existence. (Not that Hermione seems to mind.) “Alphard Black.”

And _oh_ , Sirius’ favourite uncle is Hermione’s Soulmate. Isn’t that just _golden_? He’s also, literally, the first student to speak to them. (What did Harry say about his luck?)

(Harry wonders if both their Soulmarks have the words italicised, too, or if only spells are granted that treatment. He’s seen Hermione’s notes, though, and finds he wouldn’t believe if someone told him the ‘inbred’ isn’t bolded, underlined _and_ italicised.)

“She’s feisty, certainly,” Riddle drawls, visibly assessing a blushing, mortified Hermione. “Not overly displeasing to the eye, if you’d excuse the hair, and the teeth, and—”

Harry snaps before fully processing his own words, “Back the fuck off, _Riddle_.” He snarls the name like it’s a curse — and maybe it is. ( _His_ mark definitely isn’t italicised, though.)

And well, fuck, it’s like they are physically incapable of spending a full minute with Slytherins without finding their Soulmates, like they’re incapable of speaking politely to random strangers they know they’ll have to deal with frequently in the future. Doesn’t speak well for their reputations, if you ask the Slytherin in Harry.

Hermione gapes at him (it’s her ‘Did you really have to say that?’ look), and even Riddle is stunned for a moment.

(And Harry would never admit it, but he feels a tug at his traitorous heart, a pull like a magnet on his delighted soul, a resounding _click_ through his entire being; feels like his magic is sewing him to the teenager before him, stitch by agonisingly slow stitch, each one more painful and yet more _right_ than the last.

And there’s no mistaking that this could be anything other than the completion a Soulbond left to fester for too long. There’s a feeling of _rightness_ he never knew he craved, a soothing of a pain he never knew he felt, and relief where he never knew was plagued with unease.)

(If there was any doubt, if Harry had a single flicker of hope — or worry — that Riddle isn’t his Soulmate, it’s undeniably drowned now, and he’s not entirely sure how he feels about that.)

Lucretia Black giggles loudly, before erupting with a snort, into an uncontrollable fit of laughter. (To anyone not privy to the conversation, it would seem like just another bout of Black Insanity.) She hastily excuses herself to prance down the table. To gossip, possibly.

Fuckity-fuck.

It’s barely three seconds before Riddle seems to gather his wits (Harry warns himself, he might never see Riddle flustered again). With dark, unblinking eyes on Harry, he criticises, “Has nobody taught you to watch your first words, _Harry_?”

By a miracle of sorts (he likes to think he deserves it, after all the shit his luck puts him through), Harry suppresses a smirk when he says, “I stopped caring way back when I found out who my Soulmate was.” He doesn’t even let his eyes wander to Riddle’s wrist, doesn’t give him the slightest indication that he has any interest in Riddle’s mark.

And he knows he’s not being fair to Riddle, to Hermione and to himself, but he couldn’t help taking vindictive pleasure in the look of shock that the statement drew from Riddle. The look of shock and confusion and refusal to believe and _crushed hope_. Because that was how Harry felt, once upon a time, when he first discovered the implications of his words.

(He still feels those, sometimes, if he’s completely honest with himself. Not that Riddle will ever find out.)

“Harry,” Hermione hisses, disapprovingly. He turns his attention pointedly to the ongoing Sorting, purposefully ignoring the tense atmosphere he created.

As soon as the Sorting is over, Hermione stands, grabbing Harry’s sleeve. They leave the Hall without another word to the others.

He is very well aware that it’s his fault if Hermione doesn’t get to talk to her Soulmate again tonight. He can’t really bring himself to care, either way.

* * *

Harry and Hermione arrive at the Common Room only after midnight. The password, they’d learnt previously from Slughorn, is Parseltongue. (It’s so painfully generic, Harry’d probably have guessed it anyway.)

The Common Room is empty, surprisingly. It must be later than they thought. Perhaps the habits of students in the 1940s differed from those of the 1990s.

“We should… head to our dorms, then,” he suggests, gesturing towards the stairs vaguely. She nods, and they head their separate ways.

Like in Gryffindor in the 90s, the dorms are split according to level. He stops outside the Sixth Year dorm, and takes a deep breath.

Harry could very well die tonight.

There’s nothing for it. He opens the door quietly.

He catches the tail end of a sentence, “—Tom?” before a blanket of silence abruptly smothers the inhabitants of the room. For a long moment, Harry stands by the doorway, staring at the group of boys.

It’s a strangely… _domestic_ scene. There are four of them; three lounging on — and off — the bed in the far corner, Riddle on the neighbouring bed. He’s leaning against his pillows with a book in his hands, but it’s obvious that he is just as involved in the conversation as the rest of them.

The boys stare back.

(The needle stitching their souls together pulls the thread taut. The result is a tug that’s not sharp, exactly, but throws Harry’s breathing off rhythm.)

Then Riddle says, “Harry, the bed nearest the bathroom is yours.” He gestures, and Harry gapes — he wears a standard band around his right wrist, yes, but it’s another adornment that catches Harry’s eye. Around one of his (humanly) long fingers lies a… an ugly ring. A black, crudely cut stone, set in a ring of unpolished gold.

The Tom Riddle of the diary donned neither the band nor the ring. Harry _knows_ , he remembers checking, remembers staring desperately at a blemishless patch of skin, hoping.

Oblivious to Harry’s stare, he continues, “I left your timetable on your bedside table. You ought to be informed that curfew is 2130, if you haven’t already found out the hard way. As the resident prefect, you can come to me for any… difficulties you may encounter. Avery, Lestrange?”

“Yes, Tom?”

“ _Where are your manners?_ ”

“Right, of course.” The unknown blonde boy rises, gesturing to the pile of books in Harry’s arms. “Let me help you with—”

The other unknown boy gave a long-suffering sigh before rising as well and stalking confidently up to Harry, pushing the blonde aside in the process. He extends a hand. “Felix Lestrange. Pleasure.” In the depths of his eyes, there's a certain ruthlessness, a certain quality that told Harry and his newfound self-preservation, not to offend.

“Honoured.”

Catching on, unknown blonde boy quickly introduces himself as well. “Everett Avery. I’ve heard about that tongue of yours.” He adds in a lower tone, “I’m a fan.”

Harry tries — he really does! — to refrain from snorting, but his derision must have shown anyway. That, and maybe an unstifled snort is a little too obvious a sign that he finds Avery’s name amusing.

Avery cracks a grin. “I know, right? I get that all the time. Even Tom laughed at my name.”

He says it like they didn’t probably despise Riddle in the beginning.

Actually, now that Harry thinks of it, he’s pretty sure his plan isn’t working out. Not that he has a _plan_ , per se, but none of his battle strategies considered a universe where Riddle doesn’t decide spontaneously, at their first meeting, that Harry needs to die.

Maybe he’s not giving the Slytherin enough credit. Maybe this _is_ Riddle plotting his demise.

The Slytherin in question raises an eyebrow at Harry. (He’s been staring, he realises, averting his eyes quickly to find his bed.)

He drops the books he’s borrowed from the library on his bedside table, and is immediately accosted by an arm thrown across his shoulders. “Say, Granger. You any good at Potions?” Avery asks as he manoeuvres them so they’re sitting side-by-side on Harry’s bed.

“If I were, I’d have something toxic with me to pour on arms providing unwanted physical contact.”

Someone snorts as Avery removes his arm quickly and flees to the next bed. “Nevermind, then. You guys go ahead and sleep, I’ll be up doing Potions ‘til whatever ungodly hour Magic deems fit.”

Harry unconsciously dusts his shoulders off before turning towards his trunk at the foot of the bed. He freezes.

Sitting on the bed diagonally across his, Riddle has his book on his lap, and his eyes on Harry. Unblinking.

(Another stitch, the needle pierces him.)

It doesn’t bother Harry. It’s unnerving, is all.

(He wonders, as he falls asleep that night, if Riddle places any faith in Soulmates; if Riddle has any faith still, in Happily Ever After. If he had any _before_.

And Harry wonders if _he_ has any, still.)

* * *

Harry wakes up early the next day — the kind of early that would ensure he got the bathroom to himself, when he was in Gryffindor.

Unfortunately, it seems time runs differently in the 40s’ Slytherin. The bathroom is occupied. Avery’s and Riddle’s beds are empty, Lestrange is reading, and Alphard Black is digging through his trunk. (It’s messy, in the way Tonks always is. Would be.) He’s got robes and a tie thrown on his bed. Poor guy doesn’t know the Summoning Charm.

It’s only 0700, though, and Potions starts at 0830.

“Do you always wake up this early?”

Lestrange shrugs, and Black snorts. “Tom doesn’t approve of sleeping in.” And that’s that.

Eventually, Black seems to remember the existence of the Summoning Charm and drops to his butt on his floor, relieved. “Say, Granger, you play Quidditch?”

“Yeah,” he replies. “Seeker.” He wonders if he would feel strange playing for Slytherin. It would feel like betrayal, wouldn’t it?

No, it probably wouldn’t. Quidditch is Quidditch. He’s played against the Weasleys. He’s cheered for Bulgaria against Ireland. It’s just a game, really. A game he really, really likes.

Black grins at him. “You should try out for the team, then. Malfoy’s captain, and he’s thinking of playing Chaser instead, since he works better with Orion and Lestrange here than anyone else could. Bloody crazy, that duo.”

Malfoy. Black. Lestrange. Being on the team means connections, then, the Slytherin in Harry muses. “Do _you_ play?”

He shrugs. “I’ll try for Keeper, since Flint has graduated. Might not cut it, though.”

Lestrange snorts, but still says nothing.

“Are the dates for tryouts out already?” he asks, because, slow as Gryffindors may be, Harry _has_ caught on to the fact that Slytherin (at least, that of this era) operates on a schedule that Gryffindor could never hope to follow.

“They’re always held on the first day. 1600.”

Harry is about to grumble something about Slytherins and their over-preparedness, when the bathroom door opens. “We’re heading down in fifteen,” Riddle — Riddle, who looks, kind of, unbelievably hot towel-drying his hair despite being fully clothed, and who’s probably giving Harry a new fetish — announces.

Thank Merlin Harry didn’t get distracted so easily when he was twelve.

Speaking of _that_ incident, Harry wonders vaguely where Myrtle’s body went, and if she’s haunting the school already. Morgana, that must be depressing.

( _Maybe he killed Myrtle,_ Ron had said, once, and Harry can’t help letting out a faint snigger.)

* * *

Breakfast with the Slytherins is an… interesting affair.

Hermione isn’t there when the Sixth Year Slytherin boys arrive at the Great Hall, so Harry sits with them. They have barely sat down when they’re joined by another group of Slytherins (it’s barely 0730, mind, on the first day of school). They’re introduced to Harry by Riddle. (He’s sitting on Riddle’s left, so it feels strangely like he’s at the top of the hierarchy right now.)

Abraxas Malfoy, Seventh Year, Captain of the Quidditch team, sits on Riddle’s right. (Quidditch team, he realises from a mere few moments of watching their interactions, truly is snake-speak for Must-Get-On-Good-Side-At-All-Costs. Talent on the broom is a sign of good breeding.) Zephyr Rowle, Fifth Year, along with Avery, are the Beaters.

Jovan Rosier, Seventh Year, good at Potions. Theodore Nott, Seventh Year, very smart. Mulciber and Dolohov, Fourth Years, are friends with Orion Black.

Also, Walburga is a Seventh Year, and is Heir Black. He should probably avoid getting on her bad side, because there are rumours that she’s part-banshee.

That’s about it. By the end of the introductions, the only names Harry remembers are those he knew beforehand, or has reasons to take note of. (Malfoy, the Blacks, and Nott.) The whole group appears to hail from posh old-money families, but nobody so much as looks the ugly, unrefined ring Riddle flaunts with any modicum of disgust.

Hermione arrives with Lucretia Black, Walburga Black and Althea Greengrass sometime before 0740. There’s space made for them, and they sit right opposite Harry, with Alphard and Rosier.

“So, Slughorn,” Malfoy says when they’ve all settled down. “He’s our Head of House— the two of you weren’t in the Common Room when he came down yesterday. He’s the one with the pot belly, and a bit of an idiot, really. Likes to ‘collect’ students, so to speak. You want to get on his good side—”

“Actually,” Harry finally finds it in himself to interrupt, “we’ve already met him.” He regrets it immediately when all eyes snap to him. “Uhm, he found us in the library past curfew, gave us the password. Who comes up with the passwords, anyway? Are they always so generic?”

There’s an uncomfortable silence and shuffling. Then Riddle clears his throat. “As the Sixth Year Prefects, Miss Greengrass and I do. They have to be simple, unfortunately, for the… simpler minds to remember them.”

“We have Transfiguration after Potions,” Lestrange says. “Dumbledore is—”

“Actually, we’ve met him, too,” Hermione cuts in. She, like Harry, likely does not particularly wish to listen to the Slytherins dissing Dumbledore. (The Slytherin part of Harry, though, does wish to know what they think, when alone.) “He helped us settle into the school before the term started.”

“How lucky,” Riddle starts before anyone else could comment. “New transfer students, as well as First Years, are usually thrown right into classes when they arrive, without much of a buffer to adapt to the environment. No other students get the privilege of assistance in settling into the school over the summer, especially not the last.” He gestures vaguely in the direction of the Ravenclaw table. “Did you live here, by any chance?”

Harry realises he should have told Hermione everything he knows about Riddle. Like the fact that he _begged_ the Headmaster to let him stay, but was rejected. Like the fact that he lives in an orphanage and in actual danger from the war. Or maybe even the fact that his greatest fear is his own demise.

“We did,” Harry replies slowly. “Our house has been destroyed, too. Don’t have anywhere else to go.”

“They didn’t send you to an orphanage?”

“There are no Magical orphanages. It’s not exactly safe in the—”

Harry drops a fork, at exactly the same time Malfoy does, creating a very loud interruption. (He decides he likes this Malfoy.) “Tell us about Dippet,” he suggests.

* * *

Slughorn. Is. Horrible. There’s no other way to put it.

Before his lesson, he spoke little to the ‘Granger cousins’ beyond ascertaining that they most probably had some Magical blood. Descendants of a squib, maybe.

But they entered his classroom flanked by his favourite students like Black, and Miss Black, and Lestrange and Riddle. Suddenly, with a question or two answered flawlessly by Hermione, Slughorn was throwing them praises as generously as Trelawney threw death predictions.

As part of Tom Riddle's master plan to assassinate Harry, Harry finds that they’re sharing a cauldron. It sort of just happened. (“You’ll be sitting with me, of course,” and that was that.)

Of course, this results in Slughorn praising Harry’s innate talent with potions, as though Harry can tell monkshood and aconite from wolfsbane, knows what the difference between cube and dice is, and has memorised the recipe for… whatever it is they’re brewing today. In truth, it feels like Riddle has to actively prevent Harry from destroying the cauldron.

At one point, Riddle hisses irritably, “Can you read?” and Harry replies, “Of course I can. Look, it says here; Step 6, stir seven times—”

“You haven’t done Step 4 yet,” Hermione interrupts upon taking a quick glance at their cauldron. “Have you always been this bad at Potions?”

Well, no. The classroom is just abnormally distracting today. There’s the smell of newly polished broomsticks — and that’s pleasant, yes, but there’s also the _really_ distracting smell of…

(Another stitch through his soul, and it clicks.)

Morgana’s mouldy socks, how much cologne does Riddle actually need?

He grins sheepishly, turning to look apologetically at Riddle, only to find that he’s being stared at again.

(Has he mentioned how _intense_ Riddle’s stare is?)

* * *

“He really does seem to dislike you, Riddle,” Harry relents under his breath after Dumbledore has neglected to award points for Riddle’s work well done yet again. It’s not even a case of House rivalry — he showered Hermione generously with points after she recited half the textbook.

“Call me Tom,” is all he gets as a snappish reply.

Harry scoffs. “Why, because Riddle isn’t a Wizarding surname?”

“It is _now_. And don’t presume to know—”

“Ten points, Tom, for verbally attacking your classmates during my lesson.”

* * *

Riddle, much like Hermione, is absolutely insane when it comes to his studies.

Harry borrows his timetable during lunch and sees that it’s _packed_. He even counts the number of classes he’s taking. Yep. All of them. Except Muggle Studies, that is. It’s not a subject in this era. (Slipping Riddle’s timetable out of his bag casually earns him incredulous looks from the other snakes, but he ignores them. Surprisingly, Riddle only gives a small acknowledging hum.)

And much like Hermione, Riddle apparently has a distaste for Divination.

They have barely stepped into the classroom when the professor — whom Harry remembers specifically saying he’d look forward to having Harry in his class — declares that either Riddle or Harry must leave his class. He refuses to have to deal with both of them simultaneously. Apparently, they bring with them a migraine worse than a Wrackspurt infestation, and enough tears to blind all his eyes.

They both leave without ceremony.

Harry finds himself following Riddle subconsciously as they make their way from the tower; finds himself in the library.

It’s like Riddle, like Hermione, is wired to head automatically to the library during any and all free periods.

* * *

Harry leaves the library at 1530 for Quidditch tryouts. He is closely followed by one Tom Riddle.

“I didn’t peg you for the Quidditch type, Riddle,” Harry mentions offhandedly, when Riddle fails to take the hint to _stop following him around_.

Riddle just shrugs and says, “Most of my friends are, aren’t they? I am uncertain as to the origins of your presumption, considering we’ve known each other for all of 20 hours.”

He decides not to mention that Riddle shares a great number of interests with Hermione, and the lack of for Quidditch. He _knows_ Riddle.

They arrive at the pitch without further event, and are — actually, only Harry is; Tom has disapparated to the stands — greeted by Avery. “Bloody late, Granger. We’ve all had to wait for you to start.”

He arches an eyebrow. “ _Tempus_. I was informed that tryouts begin at 1600. You know, twenty minutes from now?”

Avery blanches. “Who told you that?”

“Black.”

“Alphard? Well, he’s trying for Keeper, isn’t he? Seekers started at 1500. Was supposed to, anyway. It’s only you and Abraxas, though. Nobody else has the guts to try for Seeker, after— _Ow!_ ” He jumps abruptly. Harry’s eyes narrow; a Stinging Hex to shut Avery up. He notes idly that he can approach Avery for information, whenever the need should arise. “Bloody hell, Abraxas?”

Malfoy ignores him, looking straight at Harry. He doesn’t seem particularly unimpressed with his tardiness. “You have fifteen minutes to warm up, Granger, while I test the Beaters.”

“Hey, you can’t just _fire_ me!” Avery protests indignantly. “ _I’m_ the Beater.”

“Improved chances of victory over the dubious existence of our friendship, as they always say.”

Harry decides, as he mounts the standard Cleansweep 2, that he really does like this Malfoy. He also realises, belatedly, that he’s in the 1940s, and that means the Broom Bloom has not yet taken place. (In fact, the founders of the Bolt Company are still First Year Hufflepuffs.)

So he’s got a Cleansweep 2 that travels at a maximum speed of roughly 70 mph, requires about 300N of force to manoeuvre into a 90° dive, and has a minimum Sloth Grip Roll radius of 13.2ft. The Snitch, by the way, has not devolved.

He’s seriously starting to reconsider his options, but he hears several wolf-whistles while attempting a 110° nosedive, and levels himself abruptly to see what the commotion is about. Malfoy signals him towards the centre of the pitch, where 5 Beaters and 3 Bludgers are.

Rowle waves his bat dangerously as he approaches, like it barely weighs a wand. “Granger, you’re target practice.”

“Sorry, what?”

“Double tryouts,” Malfoy says by way of explanation. “I’ll release the Snitch, you have to give it a fifteen-minute head start. This way, I can assess you _and_ the Beaters.”

“Five Beaters, and three Bludgers, for at least fifteen minutes. Then it’s five Beaters, three Bludgers and the Snitch. Is this part of Riddle’s plan to assassinate me?”

“If you came on time, you wouldn’t have to deal with this. We have to know if you’re worth the fifteen minutes we spent waiting for you.”

Avery snorts. “That’s Malfoy for you. He speaks as though we haven’t already begun with the preparations for your welcome party.”

With another Stinging Hex and the Malfoy-patented sneer, the Captain blows his whistle and the Bludgers, as well as the Snitch, come to life.

(It’s not worrying at all, by the way, that nobody acknowledges his ‘Riddle’s assassination plan’ comment.)

It’s singularly the most terrifying, as well as death-defying experience Harry has ever had, and he’s battled trolls, fought a disfigured Tom Riddle, fought an imprint of Tom Riddle and a Basilisk, chased an escaped convict through an insanely bloodthirsty tree into a rumoured haunted house, faced a hundred Dementors at once, stolen an egg from a nesting mother dragon, stolen captives from merpeople, gone through a maze filled with creatures designed to kill Seventh Year students, escaped from Voldemort and his entire Inner Circle, and played Chase with them in the Department of Mysteries. More recently, he’s travelled fifty-and-some years back in time to meet his possibly already homicidal Soulmate and pissed him off royally right off the bat. And the amalgamation of these experiences does not even come close to comparing with the sheer peril of what he’s going through right now.

(It doesn’t help matters that his eyes keep seeking his Soulmate’s in the stands, either. Like he doesn’t have enough to keep track of.)

(It’s a fucking good thing he’s an adrenaline junkie, or he’d have murdered Malfoy, and maybe some of the better Beaters, by now. Or be dead. Probably the latter.)

Harry’s not entirely sure if the fact that his life’s adventures are flashing before his eyes is a premonition of his death, but he’d prefer not to think about those things when he has Bludgers to dodge, a Snitch to catch, and one Abraxas fucking Malfoy to impress. He’d be damned if he doesn’t at least make Captain after this.

When Malfoy blows the whistle signalling the end of the first fifteen minutes, he almost whoops in relief. But that would result in a Bludger bashing his skull in, probably, so he expresses his relief it with a simple sigh. Not only is he alive and relatively unharmed — he’s got a few scraps from particularly close calls, and possibly a broken shin, but those are nothing compared to an armful of missing bones — but he’s also got his sights on the Snitch.

… For a bit, anyway. A lifesaving swerve later and he’s lost it again.

It’s another 150 seconds, at least, before he spots it again. But there’s no way he can reach it if he flies straight, predictable trajectory and all. That, and the Bludgers haven’t slowed down any, despite the massive downgrade in the brooms that travelling 50 years back in time causes.

There’s nothing for it, then.

Harry takes a deep breath, then performs a steep dive 15° off the right trajectory towards the Snitch. Steep dives have the advantage of causing the Bludgers to be above you, allowing their shadows to be seen. He gets about 35.3ft before he’s forced to do a tumble to the left and drop another three feet.

Flying on this old, insensitive and retarded broom, by the way, is fucking tiring. He’s not being paid enough for this.

It’s Harry’s lucky day today, though. The Snitch is still there, just _there_. Like it’s been waiting for him all this while.

(Shining, shimmering, splendid—)

He allows himself to shoot upwards — not too much, seven feet, maybe — before diving down at a 73° depression, straight for the point twelve feet or so from Snitch. When he’s near enough, he performs _another_ — he swears, he’s done it more times today than he did during Oliver’s insane drill practice — Sloth Grip Roll, with all the precision of Snape’s close-eyed ingredient slicing.

Harry reaches for the Snitch. Time slows down, sort of. His fingers are mere inches away from closing around the Snitch, when he hears the telltale whistling of the Bludger from his left. 022°.

He’s had enough experience, at this point, to know that even if the Bludger is charmed to stop actively attacking people when the Snitch is caught, it has sufficient momentum to break his arm badly enough to warrant a complete bone removal. He’s close enough to the ground, though. Ten feet, maybe less. Probably less.

Harry takes a deep breath again, and leaps.

(Soaring, tumbling, freewheeling—)

The brief freefall is… liberating. Like the air rushing past his ears is taking all his fears, insecurities, and worries away. (Take them all, he thinks viciously, and hit the damn Bludgers with them.)

It’s not, however, very precise at all. (He swears, the Snitch darts away from his outstretched fingers.) He ends up catching the Snitch anyway, of course — that’s what Harry Potter _does_. It just… doesn’t happen to be the most conventional way of doing it.

(He swears, if they don’t name this particular move after him, he might as well quit Quidditch.)

Harry is on the ground coughing the Snitch up when six players land around him.

Avery, as usual, speaks first. “Bloody hell, Granger. We’re naming the sport after you now. Abraxas, would you like to sponsor me, maybe? I’m opening a broom company in his honour.”

(… Not exactly what he asked for, but this works, too.)

When he sits up, though, Harry finds his eyes seeking the stands, first. Riddle’s seat is vacated. (The pitch is round and symmetrical, but Harry _knows_ which seat Riddle was sitting at.) He shifts his gaze, then, to Malfoy.

With a blinding grin, Malfoy extends a hand. “Welcome to the team, Harry.”

He spends the night in the Hospital Wing. Flying is an exhausting activity, trust Harry on this. Therefore, he absolutely cannot be blamed for falling asleep the moment he collapses on the bed.

(He dreams of a hand carding through his hair; of scarlet, narrowed eyes; of intensity; and of a hissed I loathe you.)

* * *

Harry leaves the Hospital Wing at the crack of dawn and technically couldn’t have missed anything, but as he gets ready for the day in their dorm, he can’t help noticing the atmosphere is different.

Lestrange, for one, makes an obvious effort to include him in conversations. He’s almost as positively bubbly as Alphard, now. “Call me Felix, by the way,” he says as they lounge about, waiting as usual for Riddle to exit the bathroom. “Abraxas would insist you use his first name, too. Team bonding, and all that bull.”

For another, Avery is buried under his excessive number of blankets and mumbling incoherently about homework, and why he’d ever bothered with that.

But most conspicuous is the way the stitching seems to have subsided. There’s a steady thrum there now, where the thread would have been, that twinges dully once in a while, and he swears he still feels a tug or poke every couple of hours, but it’s nothing like the incessant stabbing and yanking of the previous day.

(He’s not complaining.)

* * *

Quidditch practice takes place _everyday._ An hour three times a week, two hours twice, and three hours twice more.

It starts on Wednesday, one hour, at 1700. Practice, then dinner (which is part of the Team Activities, Captain’s orders). Riddle, once again, follows them to read a book in the stands, much to Avery’s very vocal consternation. (“The guy sees me sleep, I don’t need him to see me make a fool of myself with a bat that’s heavier than me, a hundred feet high, sitting on a stick that’s about as thick as a lacewing.”)

Alphard made the team, as did Avery and Rowle, once again.

(Orion comments that perhaps the prefect is feeling left out, since the entirety of his dorm seems to be prodigies in Quidditch. He’d bet they talk about it a lot in the dorm, too. Harry is convinced Orion has no idea who he is talking about.)

At dinner, Harry observes once again that the seat to Riddle’s right is occupied by Lestrange. Abraxas has been unceremoniously removed from his seat since the morning after Quidditch tryouts. When he asked Avery about it, all he received in reply was a shrug and “That’s between them, isn’t it?”

Hence Abraxas sits on Harry’s left instead, much to Riddle’s obvious displeasure. In fact, Riddle seems particularly snappish these two days.

In an attempt to appease him, Harry offers him a treacle tart. The effect is instantaneous, and serves to work only against his intentions. Riddle stands up abruptly, and with a poisonous glare at both Harry and Abraxas, sweeps from the Hall without a word.

“Is he allergic to treacle tart, or something?”

Felix Lestrange gives him a look that simply screams, ‘Oh, you poor, naive child.’

(Harry decides to apologise for whatever he did to offend Riddle. He dozes off somewhere around 0245, while waiting up for him that night, and Riddle's not the only one who hasn't returned when he does.)

* * *

Riddle doesn’t show up for breakfast, but is already in his usual seat for Potions, not a hair out of place. (Contrastingly, Avery who sits behind them has very obviously not slept. Harry assumes he stayed up doing Potions again.)

Riddle says nothing when Harry takes the seat beside him. In fact, he says nothing at all, the entire lesson, opting instead to do all the work in silence and leaving Harry to entertain himself while ignoring the overpowering scent of Riddle's cologne. (Why does he insist on using more of it for Potions? To leave a good impression on Slughorn?) Occasionally he shoves some ingredients to Harry, and taps the command word on the recipe.

(Harry notices Riddle has removed the bulky ring for Potions.)

Harry slices all of them. Not like he knows if he’s actually slicing or dicing. Or mangling, as Snape calls it.

(He notes that Riddle sighs every once in a while at his mutilated ingredients before going back to the store to get another set and slice them himself.)

The lesson ends with Slughorn yet again pouring praises over them, attempting murder by drowning. They have a free block after this (Divination), and it’s too early for lunch, so Harry resolves that it’s time to speak to Riddle.

He grabs Riddle’s wrist as the Prefect attempts to leave swiftly. “Walk with me?”

For a long moment, Harry is met once again by the intense blue — _indigo_ , actually, and Harry’s pretty sure nobody’s eyes are supposed to be that colour — of Riddle’s soul-searching gaze. He can’t help but to stare back, heart pounding and unable to breathe. It feels strangely like he is unclothing his very being before those eyes; and yet, he knows if he were to avert his own, he would inadvertently reveal more than he can afford to. It doesn’t help that Riddle has some of the nicest eyes Harry’s ever seen, either.

Briefly, he thinks that Riddle could probably perform Legilimency on him without his knowledge. Or with his knowledge, and he still wouldn’t blink or otherwise break eye contact.

After what seems like an eternity, Riddle blinks. It’s a slow and lazy blink, and if blinks could be _calculated_ … well. What can he say? That’s just how the King of Slytherin is, probably. “Well, get packing, then.”

He does. He packs like the hounds and Merpeople of Hell are chasing him.

They walk, with Harry leading subtly, in silence. Complete, awkward, silence. He breaks, eventually. “I’m, uhm, I’m sorry.” At Riddle’s questioning look, he adds hastily, “You know, for dinner yesterday. For—” For what, actually? Offering Riddle some treacle tart? “Hey, Riddle, why don’t you like treacle tart?”

“And whatever gave you that delusion?”

Harry blinks. He’s confused. Very confused. “You left dinner so abruptly, I thought—”

Riddle’s expression darkens. “If that’s all, I have a Potions essay to complete.” Without waiting for an answer, he turns on his heel and stalks off in the direction of the library.

(Harry wonders, if Snape learnt his Bat Walk from Voldemort, after all.)

He stops, barely ten feet away. Snaps impatiently, “You’re coming with me, you fool.”

* * *

“What’s with Tom, Harry?” Avery whispers to him at lunch. “We had Ancient Runes together, and he didn’t let anyone, even Lestrange, sit with him. Didn’t want to eat lunch with us, either.”

Harry shrugs. “Why do you call him Lestrange, anyway? You’ve known him way longer than you’ve known me.”

Avery tilts his head contemplatively. “That’s because he’s Heir Lestrange, isn’t he? He’s proud of it. But _you’ve_ got a Muggle surname.”

(It is **now** , Riddle had snapped. And Harry is, for a brief moment, sorry.)

(... He tries very hard to pretend he doesn’t notice, that such a thought results in another stab of the needle, another pull of the thread, that binds them together.)

* * *

Riddle shows up again at Quidditch practice. Nobody questions it anymore.

He’s still silent at dinner, where Abraxas makes it a point to sit on his right again. That earns him a Basilisk-level glare, but Riddle still refuses to speak to any of them.

(The ring is back, and it’s on his ring finger, and Harry doesn’t allow himself to wonder if it means something.)

They’ve barely started with the appetisers, when Abraxas asks, leaning blatantly across Riddle, “Hey, Harry. You haven’t been to Hogsmeade, have you? I’ll give you a tour this weekend. How does Saturday and lunch sound?”

It’s a manoeuvre, Harry can tell that much. He’s not sure what it’s about, though, so he agrees, anyway.

Once again, this somehow results in Riddle placing — clinking, slamming, throwing — his utensils down, seething, and promptly leaving. Not without a hissed, “ _Fuck you, Malfoy,_ ” this time, though.

Deciding he’s had enough of Riddle and his temperamental attitude, Harry turns towards him, half-standing. “The fuck is with—” He is cut off by a hand firmly grabbing his arm, and pulling him back down.

Hermione, who is sitting on his left. She shakes her head and mouths, The Room, after dinner.

* * *

It’s not an invitation to a private talk, after all. Hermione must have told Abraxas at some point to meet them on the seventh floor. And she brought Alphard with her.

The Room, when they enter it, has four beanbags marking the vertices of a 2-ft square. They each take a seat, and Hermione starts speaking. “Harry, what did Riddle say when he left?” she asks, earning strange looks from all three boys.

“ _Fuck you, Malfoy,_ ” he repeats easily.

Alphard inhales sharply; Abraxas’ eyes narrow, but he shows no other sign of surprise. Hermione says, rather unnecessarily, “As you can see, Harry here is a Parselmouth.”

“I— what?”

“You’re a Parselmouth Harry, we know that.” Well, of course they do. Harry is just confused about why they’re telling Alphard and Abraxas. “He’s always had it,” Hermione explains with a wistful sigh. “His mom was Muggleborn, though, and we have no idea who his father is but— he looks like a Potter, doesn’t he? There’s no way it came from there, either. So we always knew it must have been his Soulmate—”

“That’s a myth,” Alphard says with conviction. “That certain magical traits are shared between Soulmates? It’s a myth. The power of a Metamorphmagus, for example, isn’t shared.”

“He would know,” Abraxas agrees. “The magic runs in their family.”

Hermione raises an unimpressed eyebrow. “Just because it doesn’t apply to _one_ trait, you assume that _all_ traits adhere to the same rules?”

“Merlin, she’s like Tom,” the Seventh Year blonde mutters under his breath. Then, louder, he asks, “He has got Tom’s words on his wrist, then?”

“‘He’ is right here, if you don’t mind.”

“Oh, they’re his alright,” Hermione interrupts glacially. “But the mark’s pretty private, you understand.”

“Speaking of Riddle, why’s he acting so strange? Doesn’t seem to be his normal behaviour, all that snapping and sudden departures. Even Avery seems confused.”

The three of them exchange looks, raised eyebrows, and Abraxas coughs awkwardly.

“Head back yourself, okay?” Hermione suggests cheerfully. “The three of us have something to discuss.”

(It doesn’t feel like he’s a child being dismissed from a grown-up conversation, so naturally, he does not stomp petulantly from the Room.)

* * *

The moment Harry enters the Common Room, Seventh Year Prefect Walburga Black intercepts him. “Where were you? It’s past curfew. Are you _trying_ to drive Slytherin's name into the mud?”

A quick glance across the Common Room confirms that his dorm mates aren’t here. Just the Fifth and Seventh Years, mostly. OWLs and NEWTs, and all that. A couple of girls from his year, a handful of younger ones. “I was with Abraxas—” he starts, because Abraxas is the other Seventh Year Prefect, but is interrupted smoothly by one Althea Greengrass.

“ _Abraxas_ , he says. While we, who have known dear Heir Malfoy since birth have not such a privilege. Rumour has it,” she lowers her voice dramatically, “that Granger here has been invited on a date with Heir Malfoy.”

“Oh?” Walburga laughs shrilly. “Funny, the rumours _I_ heard say he’s Tom’s Soulmate.” After a moment of letting the audience—the entire Common Room is listening now—titter, she says, “Who do these Mudbloods think they are? Flashily transferring into our school, stalking into our House like _they_ own it, sweeping up all the good catches? You know, I heard from Slughorn that Harry here is an illegitimate child. Scandalous.”

“Well,” a Seventh Year girl Harry doesn’t recognise muses, “the bezoar doesn’t fall far from the goat, as they say.” He wonders absently if there are Wizards who mangle Muggle sayings for a living. “Now that you mention it, he looks like _Potter_ , doesn’t he?”

The other Seventh Years agree noisily. “Flies well, too, they say.”

Oh, and _now_ flying well is something contemptible. He loves humans. No double standards, no despicability.

“He’s not even that pretty,” a girl, Fifth Year, probably, comments. “Abraxas has a Soulmate, hasn’t he?”

“He’s gotten all chummy with all the respectable heirs, too. Think he gave them something?”

“A potion, maybe? Slughorn’s all over his genius.”

“He tried for _Seeker_ , like a bloody Gryffindor.”

“Maybe he’s only got the spot because nobody else is stupid enough.”

“Maybe he’s Confunded them into believing he’s their Soulmate? They say his sister is good at charms.”

At this point, Harry has given up trying to discern exactly who says what. If he were still Harry the Model Gryffindor, he’d lose his temper, shout and yell at them, defend his honour, throw some things around. Maybe a few hexes, too. But he’s Harry the Slytherin now, and he speaks Parseltongue, and in the eyes of the Wizarding World, he may as well be the Heir of Slytherin. He’s not going to let a roomful of petty, jealous _snakes_ trample over him.

When in Rome, and all that.

He raises his wand determinedly.

“Oh, going to hex us in full view of the entire House now, aren’t you. Bold, Granger.”

He’s never done it before, but speaking Parseltongue and English always seemed… well, similar, to him. There’s no reason it wouldn’t work, really. Steeling himself with a deep breath, Harry enunciates, as clearly as he can, while recalling Riddle’s earlier words, “ _Expecto Patronum_.” Or, more accurately, he hisses.

(Parselmagic; rumour has it Voldemort was pretty obsessed at it, before he was banished at Godric’s Hollow. To show-off, mostly, but it apparently has its benefits as well.)

The entire Common Room seems to take a step, or two, back— oh, who is he kidding. They literally all back off until their backs press against the walls. The tip of his wand explodes in a huge cloud of mist, much like it did back when he was learning the charm.

Harry has just about accepted that maybe he should practise Parselmagic at least once before attempting it in front of a crowd, snakes or not, when the mist clears. And there, curled up on the floor as if summoned by a _Triserpensortia_ lies a translucent, luminous Runespoor.

He should have anticipated, probably, that doing the charm in the Serpents’ Tongue would result in a serpent patronus. He’s doing that thing where he does things without thoroughly thinking them through again. Typical.

That, or it has changed because he’s said Riddle’s words.

(Somewhere in the back of his mind, Harry imagines Riddle giving an exasperated but fond sigh and shooting him with a Stinging Hex, along with a snide comment about, perhaps, using that mangled lump of flesh in his skull. A friendly, mildly painful Stinging Hex. A scene so painfully _normal_ , that a part of his soul aches. Acutely. In the likeness of a sewing pin.)

The Runespoor raises its left head and blinks at him lazily. Well. “ _Go to Felix Lestrange and tell him,_ ” he hisses, then switch languages, “I’ve got myself into a… situation in the Common Room. Help me out? _Thank you_.” The Runespoor (Harry’s calling the three heads Tom, Riddle and Voldemort respectively. It’s official.) nods two heads lazily, hisses, “ _If you insist,_ ” then slithers off.

There’s a second of complete silence where the whole room waits for the next move. Then Orion — bubbly, overexcited Orion, who fathers Sirius at some point — bounces up from his chair by the fireplace, and darts through the stone door to the dorms. Leaving his friend without a word, but Mulciber seems more resigned than anything.

Lestrange barely takes half a minute to appear. He shows up at the doorway, dressed only in his sleep trousers and a shirt, wand at the ready. Scans the Common Room, eyes land on Harry, and raises an eyebrow. “It seems like an awkward situation, that’s for sure. Was that a Patronus? And did you send Orion to Tom, too?”

“He went _where_?” Walburga screeches, standing from her seat in a most unrefined manner. She makes as though to head towards the dorms, too, when Riddle and Orion appear at the doorway.

Tilting his head with dignity befitting of the king, Riddle muses, “What is this I hear about a competing claim to my title?” His eyes land on Harry, and he grins, sharp. “The supposed Mudblood has spoken, I see.”

He says it like he’s not even surprised, but Harry _knows_ this sixteen-year-old version of Riddle is still an amateur— as compared to, say, Snape, or Voldemort — at masking his reactions. He shouldn’t have had time to fully process the implications of Harry being a Parselmouth since Orion went to fetch him, either.

This means he’s known. But how? Since when? Why hasn’t he said anything?

“Title?” Harry chooses to ask. It has become apparent that nobody would speak before he does, what with all their stares — some reverent, others less so — and the tension in the room, like the E string on a violin, strung too tight. Jarring, and ready to snap at the slightest pull. “I wasn’t aware I was attempting to lay claim to any.”

With a sniff, Riddle turns and walks back through the door towards the dorms. Felix gives Harry a look that means Hurry up, then, and follows after Riddle.

As soon as Harry closes the door of their dorm behind him, the atmosphere seems to drop several degrees in temperature.

“Where are they?” Riddle snaps.

“Who?”

“Alphard, and your sister, and _Malfoy_.”

“Cousin,” he corrects automatically. Riddle glares, and he hastily replies, “They’re discussing something on the Seventh Floor.”

“They sent you back _alone_?”

“Yes. I can take care of myse—”

Felix snorts. “Sure you can. Being ambushed by Slytherins notwithstanding, you could also get ambushed by Gryffindors, or even Hufflepuffs. Vicious Prefects, they have.”

“Well, the Ravens seem friendly enough—”

“You just don’t have enough of a presence for them to notice you with their noses stuck in a book.” Riddle jabs his wand at Harry’s chest. “ _No one_ travels alone, am I clear?”

“Oh, I suppose I’m not to traverse the Common Room without a pack of bodyguards, either? Merlin help me if I get bitten by a poisonous snake.”

“Venomous,” Riddle corrects sharply.

Harry’s mind somehow decides to notice _now_ that Riddle’s glare is annoyingly attractive. The way his eyelids fold _just so_ , and his eyebrows emphasise the shape of his eyes. The way his disdain tilts his nose up so the light hits it, the way his jaw sets so it not only brings out his cheekbones, but his chin, too. There’s a mole, there. It looks just like a smudge of chocolate, and Harry wants to reach out, to touch—

He catches sight of the glacial glare again, and hastily forces himself back to reality.

Thankfully, despite the sculpted distraction, his mind still seems to have enough substance to notice that he really hasn’t gone _anywhere_ alone since the term started. Whenever he mentions visiting the library, Felix or Riddle would have a book to return, or something to look up. Abraxas insists on walking to and from the Quidditch pitch together, always. Even when he needed to use the washroom between classes, Avery was always sure to go with him. “Is that why you’ve been stalking me?”

Felix coughs.

“There’s no way you’re related to Slytherin,” is what Riddle replies with. “How come you can speak Parseltongue? Whose mark do you bear?”

Willing his face not to give away the pounding of his heart, Harry raises an eyebrow. “Is that any business of yours? I was under the impression that Soulmarks are sacred, secret things, even in Wizarding Britain. Or did your Muggle upbringing teach you differently, _Riddle_?”

(Change the topic. Bring his attention elsewhere. Even if the cost is his terrifying wrath.)

It works. Riddle’s expression instantly morphs into one of mixed frustration and anger. “I didn’t introduce myself to you,” he hisses, in English. Also, what. “How did you know my name? How do you know _anything_ about me?” He switches to Parseltongue, then, “ _Who told you?_ ”

And wouldn’t that be a terrifying thought? Because, surely, whichever professor it was who told Harry about Riddle’s secrets, it wasn’t Slughorn, wasn’t Dippet, couldn’t have been anyone else but Dumbledore.

For one brief moment, Harry actually feels bad for Riddle. The mere notion of the one professor who clearly has it out for him, telling his Soulmate his darkest secrets before even giving him the chance to leave a good first impression—

But that’s not what happened. Voldemort left his first impression, long before Harry had ever spoken to Dumbledore. (But that’s not true either, and Harry remembers that his Soulbond had, perhaps, always been complete — if the sayings about the Patronus Charm are indeed true. That this means he’s spoken to Dumbledore forty years before Voldemort first spoke to him.)

(And he realises, with a crushing feeling and a sharp tug at the threads, that he can’t change the future.)

“What if I said,” he whispers — the sorrow shows, he knows, but he can’t hide something he feels as deep down as the deepest roots of his soul — “that _you_ did, Riddle?”

“But I didn’t,” replies Riddle, a face of petulance that reminds Harry he’s still young. It’s not fair to determine that he’d grow into a megalomaniac Dark Lord, that he’d grow up to kill Harry’s parents. Or even that he’d opened the Chamber last year and killed Myrtle. It really isn't fair.

(Harry doesn’t let himself hope, anyway; doesn't give Riddle the chance to change.)

“No,” he says, still in a whisper, “you _haven’t_.” And he stalks into the bathroom and shuts the door behind him.

He definitely doesn’t imagine Felix’s muttered, “Merlin help them,” behind him, nor the slamming of the room’s only other door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's more swearing than I think is allowed in a G-rated fic, I think...
> 
> Anyway, drop a comment maybe :3


	3. Snakes and Birds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Abraxas is the only one who knows what's going on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I went on holiday, came back, lazed around, went to school... and before I knew it it's been half a year since the last update. How. I have been writing though, I swear. It's just so much bother to transfer my docs over to AO3, and doing it on mobile almost guarantees several crashes. ^^;; Anyway, enjoy~

Riddle doesn’t show up at meals the next day.

He does, however, demand that Harry return to the Common Room with him during Divination. (Naturally, Hermione follows them.)

It conveniently clears out when they enter, its previous occupants suddenly recalling a need to visit the library, or take a nap in their dorms.

Riddle sets himself down on a lone armchair. Regally. Leans back and crosses his legs, rolls and tosses and catches his ring with his right hand, rests his cheek on his left knuckles in a way that does _not_ make Harry drool. Emphasis on the _not_ , if you will. “Miss Greengrass has a rather interesting theory, about Soulmates and induced time travelling.”

Harry’s blood runs cold, suddenly. (Whatever warmth he’s built up from excessive blood flow caused by watching Riddle, dissipates rather instantaneously.) Because surely, the workers in the Department of Mysteries are _Unspeakables_ for a reason? Surely no self-respecting _Unspeakable_ of Greengrass’ apparent rank would tell their gossiping, teenage daughters secrets that would jeopardise the confidential nature of their work?

Hermione — bless her acumen — doesn’t even blink. “I find that curious, too. An age difference between Soulmates is hardly unheard of, yet there are only _rumours_ of those who time travel to find their Soulmates. They’re bound by Fate, after all — why make it so they have to traverse time to meet?”

“The Unspeakables have a name for it. _Requiring_.”

“Exactly,” Hermione says, willfully ignoring Riddle’s implications. “My guess is that there are times when something interferes before the Soulmates would normally meet.”

Riddle’s eyes narrow sharply. He’s catching on, to where Hermione is leading the conversation. “Interference, you say? Care to elaborate?”

“Oh, you know,” she gesticulates randomly, feigning an inability to express herself. “Irrevocable changes to one’s state of soul.”

And something shifts behind Riddle’s — beautiful and sharp, like broken stained glass — eyes. Understanding, fear, and the stubborn refusal to acknowledge.

“Something must have happened,” Harry says, clarifies, makes it so Riddle cannot deny, “before the birth of the travelling half, that would make it impossible for a proper soulbond to form. Something like death, or a Dementor’s Kiss. And that something, is inevitable.”

(Even now, decades before he would speak them, his words resonate clearly through Harry’s soul. “ _I, who have gone further than anybody along the path that leads to immortality. You know my goal — to conquer death._ ”

For if Harry’s boggart is Riddle, then Riddle’s too must be himself.)

* * *

 

After that conversation, Riddle withdraws even further into himself. He seldom shows up for meals, doesn’t show up in the dorm, is no longer seen during Quidditch practice, and no longer insists on not leaving Harry alone. Someone else takes over the job.

Harry sees him, though. In the corner of the library, under Notice-Me-Not charms, poring over books that talk of Souls, Time Travel, and Soul Magic, Harry sees him.

Harry always sees him.

* * *

 

Magical Creatures, as it turns out, is a compulsory subject in this era. NEWTs and coursework for the subject are optional, but everyone has to attend  lessons, just so they understand how to deal with creatures they couldn't have been introduced to at a younger age.

Thestrals, for example.

The class is ridiculous, in that it doesn't actually seem much safer when Kettleburn conducts it, than when Hagrid does. (In other words, it's their first lesson, and already Harry knows how he's going to die.)

Even Riddle is terrified. He's got a slab of raw meat in his hand and his back to a huge tree. And he's muttering under his breath, “Creatures of death, creatures of death.”

Where Hagrid introduced the class to a herd of (albeit doubtfully) trained thestrals, Kettleburn declares that the first thing you should learn about any creature is how to attract them. So you could do it in the future, or so you know what _not_ to do. Which, in this case basically means standing in a generally magical-creature-populated area, with a slab of raw meat.

Oh, of course, the safety precautions: _a_ , have a professor in the arguable vicinity; _b_ , have a wand with you; _c_ , be ready to cast _stupefy_ or any other incapacitating spell. And maybe, just a suggestion, stand with someone who can actually see the fucking things.

That just about sums up all the lecture they've received from the professor before they were sent into the Forbidden Forest with slabs of meat. As if the place isn't also populated with other meat-eating monsters. (“You'll be fine,” Kettleburn insisted callously, when faced with protests from the Slytherins.)

A plus (or, not, as it so happens) is that they're in the middle of a war, and so a great number of the students actually can see thestrals. There's Hermione, though, and, surprisingly enough, Felix.

Which is how Harry finds himself being clung to by the unusually gregarious teenager, trekking through the woods otherwise alone. (His supposed cousin has gone gallivanting about with the Blacks, and Riddle prefers to quake in fear alone.)

“Hurry up and find the bloody things,” Felix grumbles. “I swear, if they find us before we find them —” He stops abruptly and Harry knows why. Attached to the slab of meat in his hand, was the small (and frankly adorable) beak of a young thestral. He can’t resist reach out to pet it (and if it snaps viciously at his hand, having mistaken the action as an attempt to steal its food, well, nobody has to know).

After they've fed the foal, they head back to the class. The atmosphere is significantly less tense this trip, and that can probably be attributed to the fact that they're no longer Creature Bait. Then Felix asks, “So… who died?” and Harry decides he likes the tense atmosphere better.

He shrugs and neglects to answer the question, but it sparks the curiosity in Harry.

(He spies Riddle watching a pair of thestrals warily, and wonders, _Who died?_ )

* * *

 

“This quaint shop here is Madam Puddifoot’s. Run by the Puddifeet, you know. Madam Puddifoot herself passed away many years ago.” Abraxas lowers his voice with a mischievous grin, “It is very popular with the Hufflepuffs. I do admit, their tea is acceptable, though the cakes can afford less sugar.”

“And why are we entering?”

“Oh, you know. Try a little of everything.” Abraxas pushes the door open for him, gesturing towards the entryway in an old-fashioned, gentlemanly way. Or, not old-fashioned, considering they _are_ in the 40s. “It’s on me, of course. Get whatever, however much you like. I do require a long rest for my legs.”

The atmosphere of the shop is admittedly much more pleasant than it would be, when Harry came with Cho. Much… milder. Pastel. Maybe the people of this time are less bold, or it’s simply not the festive season. Perhaps a little of both.

Abraxas heads immediately to one of the table-for-twos by the window. With a flourish, he pulls out a seat for Harry. He laughs, because Abraxas is acting so—

And something in him freezes.

“Tell me about your Soulmate?” Harry asks quietly, as he pretends to flip through the menu. Raises the menu high enough to hide his expression. He’s sure the uncertainty colours his voice, anyway.

He laughs, but it’s not a nervous or secretive laughter. “You have heard of her, I think. She’s in Ravenclaw, a Sixth Year. Jovan Rosier’s sister, Julie. Lovely girl, she is. We’re engaged.” He leans forward, the mischievous edge re-entering his grin. “How about yours?”

Harry shrugs, all false nonchalance. He should have seen this one coming lightyears away, really. Any half-competent Slytherin would have. “You know we were… exiled from Divination, for bringing a terrible migraine and sight-threatening tears. Half the school probably knows about that — Riddle being Riddle, and all. The general consensus seems to be that we’re Soulmates with a terrible future awaiting us.”

“And what do those concerned say?”

Harry forces a smile. “I can't speak for anyone, but I aim to end the story with minimal pain and heartbreak.” A lie, and the way Abraxas leans back, averting his eyes, tells Harry he can tell how he meant to  _end it_.

There is a long silence as Harry looks through the magical menu, tapping with his wand all the items with names that intrigue him. He’s flipped through almost the whole of the very wordy menu, when Abraxas speaks again.

“Perhaps you know more of the end than I do, and every pair  _is_ different, but I... Even if a seer were to speak as such to me, I would try, anyway, for a life with my Soulmate. And if it ends with heartbreak, well, then that is Fate's plan for us.”

And Harry can’t help feeling that Abraxas _knows_... well, something. What exactly does he know? Maybe everyone is friends with Greengrass.

He places the menu on the table and watches as it vanishes. Almost immediately, he is struck by regret, as he raises his gaze to meet the blonde’s directly, for the first time since they’ve sat down. Fishing for a topic, any topic, to break the silence, he decides on, “Tell me about Riddle.”

Abraxas huffs, stirring his newly arrived tea. (Even his _stirring technique_ screams of a cultured upbringing, Harry notes almost resentfully. What does 1940s Slytherin have against doing things _normally_?) “Tom is — how do I put this? — the epitome of Slytherin. You understand, of course. He _is_ Slytherin’s heir— but don’t tell anyone outside our House. Dumbledore suspects, but he’s Dumbledore. Tom is ambitious, cunning, and he takes care of… well, what’s his. Slytherins have always been bullied, you know, for being _untrustworthy_. It’s a completely misguided and unreasonable preconception society has about those who would do whatever it takes to achieve their goals.

“Before Tom became the King, Slytherin was mostly controlled by the Blacks. They’re — for want of a better word — _obsessed_ with Blood Purity. I agree it’s important to preserve our blood but— not to that extent. He was bullied, I think you know this, because he was believed to be Muggleborn. He made friends in the other Houses — the outcasts, mostly. It surprised everyone, earned him even more scorn. But it made the other Houses like him a little more than they did the average Slytherin.

“Then, in his Third Year, he was overheard speaking to one of the snakes in the Common Room — I think it was the one in the portrait of Professor Gaunt — and suddenly he was at the top of the hierarchy. He won the Blacks over completely, very quickly. Gaunts, after all, were known for being even _more_ obsessed with Purity. It got to the point that they were marrying their siblings.

“And it changed, overnight, the school’s dynamics. Nobody bullied the Slytherins anymore — not publicly, anyway. Intrahouse bullying was punished, severely, within Slytherin. The Slytherins weren’t allowed to bully those of _dirtier blood_ , even outside the House — by which I mean, they weren’t allowed to be caught doing it, of course.”

As Abraxas talks, the table fills up with plate after plate of cakes. Small slices of colourful cakes, each barely two mouthfuls. The blonde doesn’t notice, though, staring out the window wistfully. It is obvious that he approves of the changes Riddle brought. But…

“Something changed,” Harry guesses.

“He is much more careful now,” Abraxas agrees, moving his gaze to meet Harry’s. He cracks another amused grin when he catches sight of the array of cakes on the table. “Sweet tooth?”

“I didn’t realise I ordered so many,” he replies bashfully, trying very hard not to think about the prices on the menu.

He simply shrugs before continuing, “Tom wasn’t _reckless_ before, you know? He’s always been the careful type, but he’s the King, and he acts like it. He punishes openly, makes most of his moves publicly. And I wasn’t there, in the Common Room when Miss— Walburga, I mean, attacked you. But… they say, he didn’t make much of a scene. Felix says it’s because of how… _delicate?_ the situation was, his title of Heir on the line and all— but that’s not how Tom is. Strike fast, strike hard, he used to say. He’s not the type to avoid people like he’s been doing lately, either. It used to be more about making _them_ do the avoiding, if you catch my meaning.”

“Something changed between last year and this, then?”

“Oh, yes, definitely, but I am uncertain as to what did, exactly.”

Something about the calculating look Abraxas gives him makes Harry squirm. Quickly, he thinks of something to say, to divert the uncomfortable gaze. “... And his ambitions?”

“He’s not a Blood Purist. Believes that _power_ can come from anyone, anywhere; that those with innate powers, talents, or are hardworking and efficient deserve to succeed. It’s not a popular opinion — especially in Slytherin, where it’s all about connections and where you had the luck to be born — but few speak up against him. He wants to be a politician, make a name for himself.”

(And still it echoes in the deepest crevices of Harry’s mind, “ _You know my goal — to conquer death._ ”)

Harry swallows a question ( _What are his views on Soulmates? Mortality?_ ) along with the next mouth of sickeningly sweet strawberry cream. Instead, he shifts the conversation away from the very sensitive topic of Riddle with, “Why did you offer to introduce me to Hogsmeade? It’s not all out of the kindness of your heart— thank you for the cakes, by the way.”

Abraxas makes a sound that, on anyone who doesn’t happen to be a 1940s Slytherin, would be a snort. It’s more of a scoff, though. A very dignified scoff. “I couldn’t in good conscience allow Tom to keep ignoring you, so I did what I could.”

He says it like Harry _should_ know what he means. (And maybe he does, down at the bottom of some obscure river in his mindscape, known as the Nile.) “He wasn’t ignoring me,” Harry points out, keeping the confusion from showing from showing on his face by quickly stuffing his mouth with more cake.

The display seems only to amuse Abraxas, though Harry is sure that Draco Malfoy would blanch. Dignified table manners being demonstrative of one’s upbringing, and all. “If you say so.”

They spend the rest of the day, somehow, talking of upcoming birthdays, of birthdays past, and of the gifts that would be proper.

“I’ll pay for yours, if you can’t,” Abraxas offers with a wink, just before they entered the Common Room.

(And Harry can’t help but wonder, how the future could be so _bleak_ , when Malfoy is a nice person, and Riddle is all for meritocracy.)

* * *

 

It’s barely 0600 when Harry awakes on Sunday. He doesn’t get much chance to wonder why, when there’s a body sitting on the edge of his bed. He reaches, of course, for his wand and glasses, but is stopped by a chuckle.

“Would I have given you the chance to arm yourself? You need protection charms, and a runic barrier, maybe.” _Riddle_.

“What the fuck?”

His glasses are slid on for him, with a surprisingly gentle touch. Then the hand trails down to finger lightly — a feather-light touch, a jolt of _fullness_ , and it’s gone — at his wristband. “Wash up quickly. I wish to speak with you.”

And that’s that. That’s what Harry does  


 

Tom Marvolo Riddle does everything with a clear plan. He starts every scene, every act, every play, with not only the end, but also the entire process, down to the last detail, in mind. He’s an excellent actor. And he’s ruthless.

Tom Marvolo Riddle’s entire posture screams of hesitance and uncertainty. He fidgets with his robes, with the ring, with his wristband. He distracts himself by gazing around almost aimlessly, but resolutely away from Harry. And Harry cannot help but trust.

Finally, when they must have been walking in (strangely, companionable) silence for a whole half-hour, at least, Riddle speaks. “I realise I have not treated you fairly.” And if _that_ isn’t a terrifying way for _Riddle_ to start a conversation.

Harry snorts, because he knows exactly why Riddle is conflicted about how to treat him. “What, you have a Code of Conduct to be used specifically for Soulmates?”

Riddle shakes his head. “I blamed you for something that— well, you could not have helped, nor prevented. Frankly, it was one of the absolutes that _I_ believed in…”

“I have no idea what you mean to say.”

“My point is, nobody has eyes like yours, and I really should have known, the moment I saw them—”

“Oh yes, because Circe forbid the Heir of Slytherin, King of Snakes, has a _green_ soulmark. Of course they refer to your Soulmate’s eye colour, and not, _oh, I don’t know_ , the colour of their tie?”

“— but you surprised me anyway, with your abruptness. And I reacted… poorly. Can we start again? You can tell me to back the fuck off, and I’ll say whatever your words are.” The look Riddle gives him is so genuinely _hopeful_ , that Harry feels strangely as though he is trying to find malicious intent in a puppy’s begging for food.

But Harry _knows_ Riddle. And a puppy, he most definitely is not.

“If this is a plot to find out my words, it’s not working.” Riddle’s gaze does not waver in the slightest, and Harry feels himself caving. (But _he will not._ ) “I’ll give you this much, though— they’re red. Scarlet, really.”

He raises an eyebrow. Considering. Because even _Harry_ cannot see how scarlet could be the colour that best represents the boy before him. (Because the boy before him does not leave the mark. The one who leaves the mark is not a boy, not even a man. The one who leaves the mark has red eyes, and spills blood wherever he deems to turn them.)

Scarlet— scarlet is for blood, for martyrs, for prostitutes and for guards. Harry sees the list flash through Riddle’s thoughts, sees his mild confusion, sees him settle on one.

“Scarlet, like blood?”

And it’s frightening, isn’t it? That he can read Riddle so well while he remains utterly clueless.

“No,” Harry whispers. “Scarlet, like his eyes.”

* * *

 

Riddle follows him again, after that.

( _He needs to make up his mind_ , Harry thinks during Potions as he chops the… vegetable-like ingredients viciously.)

He has a sudden influx of post-curfew patrols, though, and supposedly spends half his mealtimes in the Library. Harry has a niggling feeling he knows what’s going on. It’s almost like Riddle is _looking for something_.

He tells Hermione, and receives a flat stare.

“What year are we in, again?”

“Sixth…?”

“Yes, of course. And what did Riddle do in his Fifth Year?”

“Scored straight O’s in nearly all the subjects,” Harry replies reflexively. “All the same subjects as you, in fact. Funny. Fate seems to _love_ putting me in the vicinity of—”

“I mean, what _extracurricular_ activities did Riddle partake in, in his Fifth Year?” At Harry’s continued confusion, Hermione heaves a long-suffering sigh. “Really, Harry, the big bad snake you shouldn’t look at?”

Involuntarily, his face heats up at a speed he’s pretty sure human skin shouldn’t be capable of. “H-how,” he sputters, and speaks really quickly, “should I know anything about that?”

Hermione blinks, then blushes as well. With a deep breath, she seems to restrain herself from delivering a smack to Harry’s head. “Myrtle Warren, does that name ring a bell?”

Oh.

 _Oh._ “So you think he’s been in the Chamber?”

“He left the Diary, remember?” Hermione seems convinced enough of her theory, but it is clear that it’s mostly guesswork. “From what you said, it seems like the Riddle in the Diary knew you. On a personal level.”

“Maybe because I poured my soul into it,” Harry comments. He’s not trying to be sarcastic, really, but Hermione’s theory seems like… an attempt at shooting a thestral in the dark. And Hermione can’t see thestrals.

(It’ll stay that way, though. Harry will make it stay that way.)

“Think about it,” Hermione, ever the patient teacher, implores. “You said you’ve seen him studying Soul Magic. To leave a part of himself — it’s obviously not a mere memory like he claimed it was — in a diary… that’s a complex piece of Soul or Mind Magic. Or both. If it’s _anything_ to do with the Soul, then it makes sense that the… imprint, in the Diary, would recognise you. And it would make sense that he can only do it _now_ , after he’s met you.”

“And what better place to read in privacy than the Chamber, is that what you’re saying?”

She shakes her head, and her next words sound strangely ominous. “Not just read.”

* * *

 

“You need your own broom,” Abraxas declares when yet another one of the borrowed brooms has got its tail disfigured by a Bludger. The brooms still fly, but their balance would inevitably be affected. A simple _Reparo_ doesn’t work, either. Something about interfering with the broom’s magic. “Diagon Alley, Saturday? We can grab lunch, too.”

Someone whistles, and Harry turns around to see Felix with a wolfish grin, leaning back casually against his floating broom. He’s reading into the situation completely wrongly, and Harry turns back to Abraxas with a pleading look, to ask him to _please stop with the suggestiveness_. But all he gets is a wink.

Harry is saved, surprisingly, by the youngest member of the team. Orion cavorts around Abraxas, swinging his arms about as he skips. “A team outing it is! A team outing! Team outing!” He stops abruptly. “Hey, you’re buying all of us new brooms, right? Flint did when he became Captain. It’s tradition.”

Of course, that is not Abraxas’ plan either, but if Harry’s learnt anything about the team’s dynamics, it’s that as far as Orion is concerned, the Captain’s position is purely nominal. The Malfoy is a complete pushover, in that way.

Rowle snorts. With a playful elbow to Harry’s ribs — which pushes him off-balance regardless of its intention — he stage-whispers, “Looks like it’s decided, then. Sorry for crashing your date.”

* * *

 

“What are you up to?” Harry asks during Transfiguration, because he _is_ in Slytherin now, and they both know Riddle can’t get away with snapping at him in Dumbledore’s presence.

“Turning this cat’s furball into a bezoar,” Riddle replies, proceeding to do exactly that. “Turning it into an innocuous rock,” he narrates as he waves his wand again. “Vanishing it.”

“What are you up to?” Harry asks again when Riddle looks over at him expectantly.

“Waiting for _you_ to get on with the transfigura—”

“You’re doing patrols more often than necessary, you aren’t in the library all those times you disappear during mealtimes or free periods, and you don’t show up at Quidditch—”

That accusation does it. Riddle slams his wand, lengthwise, on the desk. “I don’t _do_ Quidditch, _Harry_ , as you so brilliantly _deduced_ within 24 hours of meeting me. I’m sure you _know_ about my pet project. Go on, make a guess, _Harry_. I’ll give you three tries, because I’m feeling gene— oh, wait. I don’t do generosity, either. At least, not _sincerely_. Oh, did I speak more than two sentences? Surely, I must be _manipulating_ you, _Harry_ , plotting something or the other. I can’t possibly _actually_ be _offended_ —”

“Hey, Tom,” Alphard interrupts brightly, diffusing the tension of the situation in the way that erases all doubt the pensive brunette is related to Orion and Tonks. (As Riddle’s tirade is cut off, Harry is suddenly aware that the class has quieted, and that Riddle has been the only one speaking — very loudly, at that — for a while.) “Malfoy is clearing the Broom stocks of Diagon Alley on Saturday. Wanna pick up freebies together?”

“Gladly,” Riddle replies easily, as if he hasn’t just been interrupted from a rant with an eager audience.

“Mr. Granger,” Dumbledore says gravely, “a word after class, please.”  


… And so Harry finds himself in the office attached to the Transfigurations classroom, being scrutinised by a majestic bird.

“Fawkes,” he whispers when the phoenix trills at him. Of all the things he’d left behind ( _ahead_ ), Fawkes is…

(Something strange, something resounding, _something—_ )

Fawkes trills again, before hopping onto his shoulder.

And though the phoenix brings joy, hope and warmth, he also brings memories of the Chamber, of Riddle, of a steady drip of water in the background, of an eerie green lighting and of the ominous feeling that _something is wrong_.

Dumbledore smiles genially. “I see you’ve met Fawkes. He comes and goes as he wishes… I do believe he rather likes some of your friends. I find that Phoenices often flock towards strong individuals — birds of a feather, as the Muggles say. As much as Gryffindor and Slytherin have their differences, one does have to admit that Slytherin houses many who are strong, in their own way. There is much strength to be found, in the suppressed and in ambition.”

(Harry feels like there’s a discrepancy here he should be aware of, he feels like this speech of Dumbledore’s is important in some way or another, he feels like he’s being told something.)

(Harry has no idea what Dumbledore’s point _is_.)

(Harry has no idea how he feels about this Dumbledore, because now that he’s away from his life as it was, now that he’s in a reality where the world expects Dumbledore to do the saving, he can see so clearly that the job of a _saviour_ , should not have fallen upon Harry’s shoulders. And yet this Dumbledore doesn’t blatantly favour any students — though he does rather blatantly dislike Riddle — and doesn’t expect anything from Harry, and in fact seems like a pretty darn good teacher.)

“You must be very strong, then, sir,” Harry settles for saying. “About what happened in class earlier…”

Dumbledore’s smile becomes suddenly less friendly, and the resemblance to Riddle’s sharp smile is startling. (An expression he’s never seen on Dumbledore, in the future.) “Yes, I would advise you against deliberately starting a scene in class, in the future. But that is not why I called you here today.” And all of a sudden, ‘Dumbledore the Disapproving Professor’ becomes ‘Dumbledore the Strange but Grandfatherly Professor’, but without the white hair and long beard and wrinkles. “Lemon drop?”

“No, thank you.”

He sighs. “Yes, Slytherins seldom indulge in what’s freely offered.” With another smile — a _sly_ one, this time — Dumbledore says, “You may go.”

(And Harry wonders if, in the end, the meddling old coot really is referring to Lemon Drops.)

* * *

 

Defence Against the Dark Arts remains the subject that Harry does best in.

… Well, mostly.

See, DADA is really more about _defending_ , than about what one defends _against_. That suits Harry well and all, except it’s not so picky about what one _uses_ to defend, either.

“As NEWT students, you must have more _imagination_ ,” Merrythought rebukes for the thousandth time as she drums her fingers impatiently on her desk. “Let’s try that again. Avery, you’re faced with an army of Inferi, what do you do?”

“Deanimation.”

Riddle snorts.

“Exactly the answer I expected,” Merrythought says neutrally, “but ridiculous nonetheless. Deanimation is a direct counter to Reanimation, which first brought the Inferi into being. As such, it is not a simple spell, but a ritual, and thus requires more energy and time than you would have at hand. Your take, Riddle?”

“ _Incendio_ , or _Fiendfyre_.”

“Excellent, but destructive. And if the Inferi were, say, Veela, and thus immune to fire?”

“Summon a unicorn,” Harry mutters under his breath.

Riddle snorts, but seems delighted at his answer. (Riddle, Harry has discovered, can’t hold a grudge if his life depended on it.) “How about a phoenix? Would Fawkes eradicate a horde of Inferi, do you think?”

“Fawkes, Dumbledore’s phoenix?”

“Yes, he seems to like me well enough.”

“He does?”

“Why wouldn’t he?” Riddle asks, raising an eyebrow as if to indicate that _all_ like him.

(But Harry very vividly recalls the disdain and contempt writ across the same face, in the Chamber, fifty years in the future, four years before, as he declared the phoenix a mere _songbird_.)

* * *

 

It’s their third Potions lesson, and whatever potion they were brewing seems to be almost complete. The smell he’d recognised as Riddle’s cologne has only gotten stronger since the first lesson, and Harry finally realises it’s coming from the cauldron.

(It’s a strange scent. It’s sweet and salty, but Harry can’t imagine that Riddle chooses to smell like lavender and sandalwood.)

Curious, he asks, “Does the cologne you use share many ingredients with this potion?”

The hand carefully pouring a powder onto a weighing scale falters, and the powder spills over. Riddle hisses under his breath, placing the bowl firmly back on the bench. He gives Harry a strange, almost confused look. “I don’t use any fragrance, normally.”

He wonders vaguely if they are in an era where men using perfume is frowned upon. There’s nothing wrong with not wanting others to sniff your body odour, really, and Harry wants to tell Riddle that. He’s about to, when he sees Hermione staring at him with mild concern in her gaze.

She leans over their cauldron when Riddle has gone to get a cloth for the spilt powder. “It’s Amortentia,” she tells him. “Love potion. Designed to smell like whatever you find most enticing.”

Well, fuck.

* * *

 

It’s not that Harry didn’t notice. In fact, he’s noticed it all too well. The subconscious following on both sides, the careless sharing of belongings, the casual jokes about everything and anything shared under their breaths. These are not things Riddle has with his ‘friends’, but these are not things Harry has ever had with Ron or Hermione, either.

In retrospect, the trio’s friendship has always been about Harry and Hermione alternating between being the ones getting frustrated and impatient, always been filled with mild berates for borrowing without permission, always had the risk of a joke going unappreciated. And no one stole Ron's food. There was always a tinge of jealousy, the underlying current of exasperation, and a just-noticeable tension, where their friendship was concerned. Oh, they liked — _like_ — one another well enough, complement one another’s faults with their strengths; but Harry can’t help but feel that their friendship has never been this _secure_.

And isn’t that the height of irony? Harry has never felt as safe as he does, in the constant presence of the Dark Lord.

It shouldn’t have come as a surprise, thus, when Harry realises they’ve barely known each other for a week, and already his life has been split into Before Riddle, and After Riddle.

Before, he’d always felt (relatively) _empty_. Bored. Days blurred together, in a way he’d always felt was normal. Most times he tried to think of if he’d played chess with Ron the previous day, and drew a blank. In fact, he hardly remembers much about Before; just the things he used to feel, and certain words that had been said. By Riddle, mostly.

After, he feels lighter. Everything seems vibrant. He remembers clearly, that the day before they spent the entire Quidditch session playing Dodge Quaffle. Remembers every herb Riddle asked him to cut on Monday. Remembers that Riddle doesn’t have night patrol on Tuesdays. He doesn’t get stares and Prophet reports written on him wherever he goes. The man who dropped him on the Dursley’s doorstep isn’t yet the self-righteous God-player he becomes.

(Dumbledore seems perpetually weary, though he teaches well despite it. He bears the weight of the world on his shoulders, but does not let it mess with his job. Harry supposes the man _does_ know what he had been made to deal with.)

There’s a reason behind Harry’s sudden need for introspection.

(He’s in the Room, sitting on a lake. Yes, _on_ a lake. He can feel the water lapping against his skin. This is what the Room provides for those who need calmness to clear their minds.)

They’d submitted their Amortentia. It’s perfect, of course. Everything Riddle makes is. Delighted, Slughorn extended an invitation for Harry to attend the ‘Slug Club’ event on Saturday evening.

Riddle immediately cut in, saying, “He’s already going as my plus-one, actually. You- you wouldn’t mind, would you, Professor?”

And that was that. Slughorn chortled. Said they had his blessings. Proclaimed loudly that he missed his own youthful days. Sighed wistfully at the thought of young love.

The moment his back was turned, Riddle slipped Harry a note, and took off at the speed of a Firebolt.

 

… So now Harry is in the middle of a serene lake re-re-re-reading an _essay_ . It’s literally an essay. It’s _three feet_ of Riddle’s perfect handwriting — which he absolutely loathes, by the way.

Clearly, nobody has ever taught Riddle to write a proper letter. It doesn’t start with _Dear Harry_ , but instead goes straight to the point. Rude.

> _I had a plan._
> 
> _I have many plans, actually. My long-term plan was this: Avoid meeting my Soulmate; curse them to Hell and back, and to Hell again, if they show up unannounced. Live forever._
> 
> _I am sidetracking again. I had a plan, on Sunday. I came to realise, about five minutes into our walk, that I am not the best at speeches. Public speaking, I have no trouble with. Giving instructions to or sharing opinions with a group of peers, sometimes I feel I am born for that — but heartfelt confessions? Heart-to-heart talks? Not my forte._
> 
> _… Clearly, heart-to-heart writing does not come easily to me as well. I shall endeavour to get my messages across by parchment and quill, nonetheless._
> 
> _As every trustworthy book or scroll I have come across has outlined clearly at least five reasons why it may not be the best idea to murder one’s Soulmate, I have abandoned my long-term plan._ _For now._ _I really would appreciate if you could enlighten me on my… predicament in the future, so I can better plan my route forward._
> 
> _I realise (without any external prompting, I assure you) my attitude towards you has been transforming abruptly, and seemingly without reason, since we first met. After much contemplation, I have come to a conclusion: The very definition of the term ‘Soulmates’, dictates that we would be… compatible in some measure. Therefore, I would like officially to offer you my friendship._
> 
> _Firstly, I would like to politely refuse your offer to back the fuck off. My name is Tom. Tom Riddle. Whatever your words are, I believe they’ve been said to you, sometime in the future._
> 
> _… That means I live, does it not? How then could it be, as you said, ‘impossible for a proper Soulbond to form’?_
> 
> _On another note, do cease your humouring of Abraxas’ games. He is too tightly wound in his Soulmate’s web to have any true interest in courting you. You should instead attempt to socialise with the other Slytherins — including the ladies. This would do you well in avoiding another confrontation. Some of the Ravens are not too bad, as well. Granger could introduce you to them._
> 
> _’Puffs, though, I would recommend you avoid at all costs. People hate and fear what they do not understand — and there is no abundance of understanding, between those who would go to all lengths to achieve their goals, and those who value friendship and loyalty to illogical extents._
> 
> _Speaking_ _Writing of choosing the right company to associate yourself with, do you know of the Slug Club? It’s an elite club, of sorts, run by Professor Slughorn. He invites his favourite students — those with exceptional talents or connections — as well as his acquaintances (read: ex-students and their connections) in high places to dinner and events every so often. It may seem ostentatious, but the events do bring no small amount of benefits, no matter the career you wish to pursue._
> 
> _On that account, I would invite you to this year’s first dinner event, this Saturday evening. It might be overwhelming, being in the same room as so many successful people — I have noticed you tend to avoid social interactions — but there will be many students you know personally present. The entirety of the Slytherin Quidditch team, I believe, would have been invited last school year._
> 
> _Do note that you would have to dress formally for the event. Do not hesitate to consult me if you are uncertain about any details._
> 
> _This is completely unrelated to anything, but— Fine. That was a lie._
> 
> _You cast the Patronus Charm, in Parseltongue. What do you know of Parselmagic? There are no books on the topic in the Library. Few books say much of the Patronus Charm either, let alone that it can be used to pass messages. How secure is it, as a messenger? Could you recommend a book that has detailed instructions on how one could go about casting it? Do you know much about other abilities that tend to be shared between Soulmates?_
> 
> _You must have heard of the Chamber of Secrets. The case has already been closed, but do avoid mentioning to anyone outside of our House that I can speak to snakes, nevertheless. Dumbledore knows, but with any luck he might have forgotten. The man is getting old._
> 
> _About what happened with Professor Lovegood; would you enlighten me on what events would have brought on his comment? Sufficient tears in our future to blind all the eyes of a seer? That is no simple feat. Surely you must know something. I confess I have always taken an interest in the art of Divination, but Professor Lovegood has long advised me not to put too much into it. He said in his first lesson with me, that I would achieve a T grade regardless of my performance in his class. It has been the one subject sullying my grades since Third Year._
> 
> _I do find my own propensity for skipping around almost randomly on topics rather disbelievingly irritating, but I hope you can forgive me for this. I wished to keep this note as honest as possible; and to achieve that, I did only the most minimal planning. I may have neglected to bring up a point or two in this mess of a note, so do not be surprised if I should ask you on another walk one if these mornings._

 

Hastily scribbled at the bottom, in a different ink (spelled on, Harry guesses), is a confession:

_I smell you, too, in Potions._

The literal bastard didn’t even sign off.

* * *

 

“A Galleon for your thoughts?” Abraxas, as charming and considerate as ever, abandons his formation — one that will be known many years later as the Hawkshead, for which the Hogshead would be named — to fly by him at his leisurely pace. Harry appreciates the concern, but he _needs to think_ , and he needs his solitude for that. There’s a reason Hermione seems to doubt his ability to think, after all. “You are distracted.”

“Riddle invited me for the, uhm, the Slug Club—” Really, curse Slughorn’s brilliant naming sense. “—event on Saturday.”

Abraxas’ broom drops abruptly, but he levels himself with Harry in a second. “As a date?”

“That’s the thing; I don’t know.”

“Well, our Team Outing will have to end before then, anyway. The Professor would not allow us to miss his dinner for a student-organised outing like that. You can go.”

Harry decides against telling him that the possible clash of schedule had not even occurred to him. “But what do I go _in_? Slughorn seemed to imply there would be important people, and Riddle expects me to— what was it? — ‘ _dress formally for the event_ ’, like he— _what?_ ” he hisses at Abraxas’ strange expression.

“It is a date, then, I assume.”

“ _What?_ ”

“If you fluster yourself so.”

“What does that have to do with—” He receives an almost fatherly pat on his back, that reminds him, disturbingly, of Hagrid.

“I’ve got this covered, so just relax.”

(What does it say about Slytherins, that the assurance only serves to further worry Harry?)

With one of what Harry has come to think of as Abraxas’ patented winks, the Captain makes a sudden swoop and snatches the Quaffle right out of Orion’s grasp.

… He’s pretty sure that’s a foul, but the Slytherin Chasers do what they want.

* * *

 

“You _like_ that bathroom,” Harry accuses flatly.

Hermione sniffs. “I fail to see how that’s any of your concern, Granger.”

“You’ve been talking to _Riddle_ ,” he accuses again.

“Really, Harry,” Riddle drawls, “considering you have _left your mark_ on both of us, and all is yet to have guessed your words on their first try, it is only natural that we, ah, _commiserate_ together frequently. That she has picked up the manners expected of a proper Slytherin, is for the best.”

“He thinks he’s got _manners_ ,” Harry comments, mostly to himself. He looks at Felix, who shrugs, and Harry repeats his comment, just to be a little shit about it.

“Does he not?”

“He writes letters without a greeting, or a subject line, or a sign-off, and delivers them by stuffing them into your hand and taking off at turbo—”

“That was _one time_ ,” Riddle hisses mock-angrily. The rest of them flee, anyway. Cowards and fools, the lot of them. “Anyway, I fail to see why Miss Granger’s preference for a particular washroom should be worthy of commenting upon.”

“Its taps run blood,” Harry explains.

“Surely not?”

“I guess you wouldn’t know, being the almighty Riddle and all. Dude’s probably never stepped foot in a girl’s washroom.”

Hermione giggles, but she says logically, “I don’t think one’s experience with washrooms depends on the type of person they are, but on the circumstances. Anyone would enter a washroom in the right circumstances.”

Riddle coughs, and changes the subject by bringing up an Ancient Runes project.

“Did they use runes in the washrooms, do you think?” Harry asks. “Keep them clean, or private, or prevent trolls from entering?”

He gets a strange look from Riddle for his efforts.

* * *

 

Harry and Hermione spend most of their evenings, after dinner, in the Room of Requirement together. It provides the rare luxury of honesty and calm, where they don’t have to pretend they belong here, nor watch their every breath. Here, they can be Harry Potter and Hermione Granger, best friends of Ron Weasley and Gryffindors by choice. Here, they can gossip about their new peers and speculate about their fates.

Here, they can ensure they don’t ever forget, that before Riddle, before Alphard, before Slytherin, before 1940, they had each other. And they’ll have each other, after.

“Isn’t there supposed to be a war going on outside?” Harry observes aloud one evening. “Yet the rules for travelling out of school seem to be more lax in this era.”

Hermione raises an eyebrow. “They’re similar. No leaving the school without explicit permission from guardians and the Headmaster, except on Hogsmeade weekends.”

What. “Do the Prefects follow a different set of rules, by any chance? Because I honestly doubt we’re having two Hogsmeade weekends in a row, at the start of the term.”

“Of course not, Harry. I believe the Prefect’s Bathroom hasn’t even been installed yet. Being a Prefect, in this time, is not about the perks.”

“... Right.”

“It’s an _honour_ ,” Hermione elaborates exasperatedly, as her writing becomes almost vicious, “to serve the school as a Prefect. To be entrusted with the _responsibility_ —”

* * *

 

Abraxas snorts. Or, it would be a snort if he weren’t _Abraxas Malfoy._

Correction: Abraxas gives a sharp, amused inhale in a posh manner. “Rules?” he repeats, in the same tone Oliver Wood might have said, ‘A sport without brooms?’ and shakes his hair free just so he can start combing through it again. (This is Harry’s first hint that he’s made a mistake, coming to the Seventh Year dorms before breakfast.)

“You’re a Prefect.”

“I am also the son of the Director of the Board of Governors.”

Oh, yes. How could Harry have forgotten? (That’s his second hint.) “Is that a response to ‘Why don’t you know anything about the rules?’ or ‘How are you a Prefect?’”

“Both,” he declares without missing a beat. “Of course, Slughorn is actually the one who chooses the Prefect and Quidditch Captain, so it’s also a response to ‘Why does Slughorn like you?’”

Harry’s been fooled. He was so _convinced_ that Abraxas Malfoy was a perfect student. Popular, good grades, Prefect, manages responsibilities, fair in judgment, indulges the children, nothing like his son or grandson, … the list goes on, really.

He should have known it still comes down to his parentage.

“So you enter and leave the school as you please, because nobody wants to risk saying anything about it?”

With a winning smile, Abraxas finishes tying his hair with a hand-tied ribbon and stands. “Well, what can I say? I am the son of the Director—”

(His third hint, is when the Malfoy opens his dresser drawer, and retrieves an ornamental box with an assortment of creams, powders, and whatever else he fancies applying on his skin.)

* * *

 

“We all end up in bad situations sometimes,” Merrythought says, “so we’d just have to be prepared at all times. One way, is by ensuring your wand is _always on you_. Many blood purists frown at the notion of fighting physically, but a knife would be a good weapon to have at hand as well. Avery, what else do you suppose might be helpful in an emergency?”

“A matchstick.”

“A surprisingly good answer, but knowing you, you’d want to check if it were spoilt beforehand. Nevertheless, take a point. Anyone else?”

“Basilisk venom,” Harry says, quirking an eyebrow at Riddle, just because he can.

He doesn’t even blink. “And where’d you get that?”

“Abraxas could get some, I reckon.”

“Bring a phoenix with you, too,” Avery suggests helpfully. Or, not helpfully, because he follows immediately with a suggestive smirk, “If you ask nicely enough, Malfoy might buy one for you.”

* * *

 

Harry has never had any qualms about spending his frankly superabundant inheritance, and neither did Sirius. But then Harry’s never had parents to mind his spendings, or guilt-trip him with the ‘We worked hard to build up this fortune’ farce; and Sirius never wanted the old money, anyway. So Harry has always spent more than his friends, on birthdays and Christmas, on the sweets and snacks from the trolley on the train; and Sirius, the first item he bought after breaking out of Azkaban was a Firebolt (which even Harry and Malfoy did not splurge on), and his purchases didn’t get much less lavish, after.

Even so, Abraxas resides on a different level of squandering altogether.

It’s one thing to ‘spoil the market’ by being over enthusiastic about gift-giving; it’s another entirely, for a barely-of-age student to insist on single handedly providing a group of teenage orphans with luxuries most do not dream of. Luxuries, like a concentrated blend of the richest chocolates from Belgium, made into a McGonagall’s-chess-set-esque fondue, all because one of said orphans commented that his Chocolate Frog has gone bad; luxuries, like what seems to be a twice-a-week delivery of _fresh_ fruits from all corners — by which he means only the good corners, of course — of the world, the ongoing war notwithstanding; luxuries, like an entire wardrobe or five of fine, tailored and branded robes for all foreseeable — and, unforeseeable — occasions.

(TL;DR: Harry has, somehow, gotten an overzealous sponsor. He adamantly does _not_ hear the lewd comments from the members of the Quidditch team who aren’t Abraxas, Harry or Orion, nor the one time Hermione let out a startled cough that sounded suspiciously like ‘sugar daddy’.)

Said orphans, by the way, despite Abraxas’ claims of this being a large-scale Malfoy research project, seems to comprise solely Riddle and Harry. Apparently, Hermione is now legally a ward of the Black family. That, and Slytherin supposedly houses no other orphans that fulfils the prerequisites: _a_ , is a personal friend of Abraxas’; _b_ , is in dire need of romantic help and soul-soothing; and _c_ , has great potential to give back, in the future.

Harry personally thinks it’s actually all about _c_. The man is a Slytherin, after all. Not to be ungrateful, but generosity to others for others’ sakes has never been a Slytherin trait. No matter, so what if he’s just an obscure form of investment? Harry’s not complaining.

Except he is, because it’s Wednesday, and there’s no Quidditch practice today, and the whole House knows it’s because Abraxas has dragged Harry off too a private _somewhere_. Somewhere, being a platform in the Room of Requirement, where a measuring tape or five is currently being wrapped around Harry in the likeness of an Egyptian Mummy. Meanwhile, Abraxas is studiously taking down the measurements of _every part_ of Harry’s body.

Honestly, Harry can’t see why anyone would require the length and circumference, and pad area, of each one of his individual toes. Unless he’s planning on getting tailored socks, which is —

… Frankly, totally Abraxas’ style.

“Riddle thinks I think you’re courting me,” Harry blurts out, when the man’s face is _way too close_ to his pelvis. Because this situation is too awkward for his inner demon to resist adding fuel to.

“Funny,” he deadpans, though he takes the hint and distances himself. “And I’ve been trying _so hard_ to avoid any potentially misleading situations, too.”

That’s. Not very nice. “You’re doing it on purpose!” Harry exclaims incredulously. Because he _trusted_ the Malfoy heir, despite all previous (future) life experience telling him how that might be a bad idea.

He simply shrugs. “I have no idea what you mean to imply.” With a flick of his wand, the measuring tapes become a neon green. “Too bright,” he says, and flicks his wand again. “Too dark.” And the process repeats as he cycles through every shade of the green spectrum, then every shade of the black one. Every once in a while, he makes a note, or asks Harry to do a mildly embarrassing pose.

Finally, when the clock — which appears on Harry’s whim, and disappears soon after on Abraxas’ — strikes 1900, Harry’s personal tailor sighes resignedly.

“I guess we have to attend dinner now.” With a careless gesture, the measuring tapes unravel themselves and roll up neatly, settling at the bottom of a box. “I’ll send your measurements and preferred palette to Twilfitt and Tattings, and your robes will be ready come Saturday. We will still have to spend some time at the shop, of course, doing adjustments, choosing designs and haggling—”

“Haggling?”

“Of course. Shop owners need to be reminded that we who provide them loyally with business should not be swindled as they swindle the newcomers.” There’s a pause, before Abraxas grins. “Surely you haven’t been paying the stated price for everything?”

Well. If Harry finds out this is a cultural thing, even in the future, he will have _words_ with certain people.

* * *

 

“When does the season start, anyway?” Harry asks as they pass by the giant hourglasses that keep track of House Points. “For Quidditch.”

“Ah, yes,” the Captain recalls, “you weren’t present when—”

A gaggle of Slytherin girls shoves past them. “Julie hopes your practice was productive!” one of them announces.

“Oh yes, have you filed your nails, Granger? Goodness! They look like they’ve never _seen_ a file.”

“They do make a rather attractive couple.”

“Don’t we?” Abraxas exclaims is false delight, hooking his arm through the crook of Harry’s elbow. “I was just thinking, Harry,” he says to Harry’s obvious bemusement, “how should I make it clear that I don’t appreciate classless insults thrown at my newest protégé?”

The girls carry on on their suddenly less merry way, moving just a little faster than before. They don’t breathe another word until they are safely out of hearing range.

“Is there a reason they hate me, aside from the speculations that I fed you love potion?”

“Well,” Abraxas replies after spending a minute or so ‘thinking deeply’, “there are rather valid suspicions that you slipped some into Tom’s pumpkin juice — disregarding, of course, the facts that he doesn’t drink pumpkin juice, and that he’s the most paranoid person to ever step foot on the Hogwarts Express.” He smiles secretively, conspiratorially, as they join the rest of their usual group at the table.

Avery grins widely, evidently at the memory of Riddle as a First Year. “Has anyone told you about his Sorting?”

“ _Don’t_ ,” Riddle hisses (in English), which of course acts only as the cue for Avery to launch enthusiastically into the story.

“He threw every revealing spell and cleaning charm a Fourth Year would know at the Hat — discreetly, mind you, though he wasn’t nearly sneaky enough back then — then insisted on talking to the Hat without putting it on, because who knew what a mind reading hat could reveal, right? The Hat just kind of rolled its eyes and told him, ‘Get over to that green table there. Off with you.’”

Harry finds himself unable to suppress a smile at the mental image of a bratty, eleven year old Riddle, looking affronted by the Hat’s apparent dismissal.

“That didn't actually happen,” Hermione says, disbelievingly. Well. She always has been the more observant one.

“It didn't,” Avery assures her. “That's just a story one of the Firsties made up a couple of years back. Part of the Riddle for Prefect campaign.”

“The _what_.”

“Slughorn was all for choosing Tom, of course, but certain Professors” (Here, Riddle lets out a cough that sounds very much like 'Dumbledore’, though maybe Harry is just projecting) “were a little vocal about their doubts. Can't blame them, really; Tom's about as subtly suspicious as you can get. Anyway, someone thought it was a good idea for the entire House to show support for him, and the kids started spreading all sorts of rumours.”

There's excited clattering — from Alphard, as he elbows his plate aside and leans forward with a huge grin. (“ _No_ ,” Riddle protests, but is ignored.) “There's this one about the Mermen in the Lake — everyone wrote it off as just another tall tale, but—”

* * *

 

Riddle isn’t in the bathroom when Harry awakes on Thursday. Instead, he’s leisurely but precisely folding a set of clean robes, that he’s presumably about to change into soon. Harry cannot understand why he bothers with being so fastidious all the time; keeping his shoes properly every evening, making his bed in the mornings, arranging the contents of his plate orderly before eating, _placing_ everything in his bag orderly between lessons. Really, the stuff’s gonna get messed up, anyway.

Felix Lestrange is lounging on his bed, flipping through an obscure, black leather-bound book, as seems to be his default position in the mornings. The mess that is Alphard's bed suggests that he has not left the room, and is occupying the bathroom. Avery's bed… well, it looks like it's never been slept on.

Speaking of which, “Does Avery actually sleep in this room?”

Felix snorts, and says nothing.

Riddle, on the other hand, smooths out the edge of a fold with the glowing tip of his wand, and moves on to iron out the creases on his socks. He doesn't even dignify Harry's question with a snort. Great.

“... Is that a no?”

Felix sighs, and it's his usual, ‘ _you poor, poor, child_ ’ sigh.

Harry decides to change the subject. “Where'd you get that ring, Riddle?”

And Felix rolls his eyes, almost audibly.

* * *

 

At breakfast, a gargantuan black owl — Harry never knew they existed in _this_ colour — lands, very violently, on Harry's head. It doesn't help that its — _his_ , Abraxas would later insist adamantly — feet are attached to what must be the thickest book, of the highest quality parchment, that Harry has ever heard of. Or perhaps the book is his saving grace, for at least the bloody bird can't yank his hair off.

(He _likes_ his hair, sue him.)

Harry does what anyone in his position would do; he lets out a stream of curses that would put the rainbow to shame. He also swats the drunk owl viciously, and causes a flurry of movement that upsets several platters and topples goblets of—

(Oh, yes. Has Harry mentioned? At the Slytherin table, they consume personalised beverages. Like, boiling tea, and _hot_ chocolate.)

The entire section of the table starts exclaiming, twirling their wands, and attempting to set the table right again. It's utter _chaos_ , and it's not Harry's fault. It really isn't. (Through the pandemonium, everyone remains seated. Somehow.)

Eventually, they settle back down, and the table is clean, the food has been replaced. And the owl has settled, seeming almost pleased, on Harry's head.

“Birds’ nest,” Riddle says, without context, as he begins to arrange food on his plate. It earns him several sniggers, and Harry once more attempts to shoo the Merlin-forsaken fowl away.

Then it occurs to Harry.

“Abraxas, bloody hell?”

“It's a surprise gift,” he offers enigmatically, “to commemorate our second week of acquaintance.” Or, it _could_ be enigmatic, if the 'gift’ weren't so outrageously conspicuous. “I meant for it to arrive on Sunday, but Burke is always so awfully enthusiastic.”

“One would think that, by our second week of acquaintance, you would know my love for books well.”

Hermione elbows him sharply. “What should you say to Uncle Malfoy, Harry?”

He grits his teeth at the sniggers. “Thank you.”

“My pleasure. It's not awfully dry, you know? It's a book on the culture—”

Avery snorts, loudly, and… fluid exits his respiratory system via the nostrils. On one hand, the action generates enough disgust to cut off Abraxas’ impassioned expounding on the book about _culture_ , and on the other, he definitely made the book… _less dry_.

And Harry has yet to hear the Malfoy heir mention the cost of anything he willingly spends on, but from the twitch of his eyebrow as he examines the book with scrutiny, he is dangerously close to hexing the culprit.

* * *

 

“I do believe, Mr Granger,” Dumbledore begins, and Harry almost chokes, “that the rules explicitly state that pets are not allowed in the classroom under most circumstances.”

Riddle says, “This isn't 'most circumstances’, sir,” at the same time Harry says, “The bloody crow ain't any pet of mine.”

A raised eyebrow, but he accedes, “Very well.”

* * *

 

“You expect me to _fly_.”

“I expect you to fly every day—”

(“Not yesterday!” Felix chimes in.)

“The book weighs a ton, Captain, and I think it's crushed my spine.”

“I fail to understand why you insist on carrying the book and owl around on your head, then. As much as it pleases me to see how dearly you treasure the gift, I assure you, displays that may potentially harm your health are unnecessary.”

“Maybe, just maybe, that has something to do with the fact that the bird seems to have deemed my head its newest nest?”

“Yes, yes, I _did_ choose him for a reason, after all. He was told to bring the book to you, so he could hardly leave with it still attached, could he? And, I may have forgotten to introduce you; Harry, this owl here, he's a melanistic eagle owl, fresh from the Malfoy incubator, hasn't even got a name yet. He's as rare a bird as you'll ever find in Britain, strong and large, and evidently very reliable.”

Harry is so bemused by the sudden change in direction of the conversation, that he blurts out, “Are you selling him to me?” in response to Abraxas’ salesman-like speech and tone.

“He's a gift, of course.”

“Of course.”

“... So…?”

“Right, how do I get it to—”

“Name him!” Abraxas as good as shouts, waving his wand to produce threatening sparks. “You can't order your familiar around if _he’s not your familiar._ Has no one taught you the most basic practices of familiar training?”

“He gives him a _familiar_ ,” Felix stage-whispers, somewhere in the background. “Gentlemen, we're witnessing the legendary, Malfoy courting ritual. A _rare bird_. Truly, a novel experience. Tell me, Messieurs Black and Black, what are your speculations on the success of such a distinctive courting gift?”

Harry hisses, “I'll name it Felix, then,” mostly to shut him up.

“What?”

“Felix, it's a common name for Muggle familiars.”

“ _Cats_ ,” Felix protests. “Not _owls_.”

“Anything that yowls a lot, I'm sure.”

“Well,” Alphard says, his voice serious despite the huge grin he dons, “Heir Lestrange, how do you feel about being honoured in such a distinctive fashion?”

“Owlful.”

 

Harry had felt vindictive pleasure at Felix's offense, and certainly wouldn't have brought himself to regret it. Except... “... It's taken to the name.”

“Of course he has. He's been bred specially by our experts, to be tamed and intelligent. You need only use his name three times for him to learn to respond.”

“It refuses to leave—”

“He's but a hatchling, requires much coddling, especially after its last long flight.”

“Can't see why you named it Felix, even if that was meant to be a joke,” Riddle announces snobbishly. “Could have named it Tom, that might shut the owl up.”

Said owl has been yodelling non-stop since Quidditch practice, so Harry concedes he has a point.

“Of course I do. I could _obliviate_ it for you, if you require.”

“To do so would be illegal, Tom, and I'm afraid I would have to report such an offence to my father.”

Harry stares at Abraxas incredulously, and raises both eyebrows for emphasis. “ _Laws?_ ”

“My father has associates in Law Enforcement.”

Of course he does. As obvious of a deflection as that is.

From the corner of his eye, Harry notices Riddle surreptitiously picking up his utensils, joining the rest of the group in eating silently. Harry attempts to follow suit, but is interrupted by the loud and very conspicuous squawking of Felix the Owl. “Okay, what the fuck do you want now, Tom.”

“Owl hatchlings need to eat, Harry,” Abraxas explains slowly, with barely a hint of impatience. Much less than Hermione during the average Po—  well, any class, really. “Like every other familiar.”

“Funny, I was under the impression that ghouls, poltergeists, inferi and other dead things don't require nutrition.”

“Poltergeists are amortal non-beings, actually,” Riddle, ever the perfect student, points out. “Like Boggarts and Dementors.”

Hermione nods approvingly, “And ghouls aren't even dead. They're like Wizarding lizards.”

Avery chokes on his whipped potato, but nobody comments on the analogy, preferring to finish up quickly with their meal to avoid the duo that Felix the Owl and Abraxas make. Well, Harry's not allowing that. Now that he sees Avery, his curiosity recalls, and Harry has never been one to ignore a mystery.

“Avery, write that essay for Dumbledore with me.”

“Of cour— wait. The one he assigned today?”

“I assume you haven't done it?”

“It's not due ‘til the Friday after the next.”

“But _I'm_ doing it this evening, and Riddle here says you're rubbish at Transfiguration theory.”

“If you're offering to help, I'd much rather ask Alphard like I always do, considering all you ever do in Transfiguration is incite chaos. One could almost accuse you of being Gryffindor, if it weren't for…” He gestures vaguely at Riddle.

“But Alphard wouldn't offer help for the same essay twice now, would he?”

“Get your own private tutors.”

“We're starting a little homework club, actually,” Harry confesses, like they've actually discussed this. This draws the attention of the other Sixth Years, including the girls. “We'll all do our homework together, because Riddle has absolutely overworked himself, helping everyone with homework, with the same questions over and over again. If we're asking him for tutelage, we should adhere to his schedule, shouldn't we?” He thinks he makes a very valid point, but all he gets is incredulous looks.

It's not like Harry doesn't know why, either. As much as Riddle projects the model student vibe in public, it doesn't take a Slytherin with half of Goyle's wits to tell, you really don't want to approach Riddle for academic help of any kind. Even the First Year girls with ridiculously huge crushes (which, in Harry’s case is _a_ , nonexistent; _b,_ not huge; and _c_ , not ridiculous, because that bastard with an over-inflated ego is actually his Soulmate) pretty much learn after the welcome feast that the Prefect is more likely to bite an innocent head off than Abraxas and his collection of vicious, exotic fowls.

In other words: Nobody has actually ever asked Riddle for help with homework. Except, possibly, Harry and Hermione. And the completely fearless kittens like Orion, whose head no monster could ever consider biting off anyway. And Felix, who seems to be what constitutes the sum of Riddle's friends. And Greengrass, who always has juicy, esoteric information to offer in exchange.

“Well, I'm in, of course,” Hermione, Harry's eternal saviour, says. “I think it's an amazing student initiative, especially from one as flippant as Harry. School should be about studying together and helping one another, else we might as well all be home-schooled. It's the spirit and the environment created by the students that makes a good school, I think, and I will definitely help anyone who turns up to complete their work together to the best of my abilities.”

And if that isn't a glowing endorsement, well—

(Wait. No. Hermione, what are you doing.) This is not going according to plan. Harry can see this, another small study group, blowing up to DA proportions. All he wanted was to bring up Avery's sleeping arrangements, in a private setting, when his guard is down, but then Avery dissed Harry's Transfiguration prowess, and ‘Study Group with Riddle’ seemed like the best option to convince Avery to study with him at that instance, and…

Merlin, Harry sucks at this manipulation thing.

And it's obvious that Riddle _knows_ , what with the amused eyebrow he is getting. Then he smirks, that oh-so-charming smirk that means he's going to lie through his teeth and you know it but you'll believe him anyway because some part of you will insist that there's no way he's lying while smiling at you like _that_ and— No, Harry isn't crushing on that guy like an erumpent.

With a perfectly pleasant tone, Riddle says, “Since it was I who suggested this little club in the first place, I think it's only fair that I speak, too.” (Harry is not panicking.) “I haven't been the most helpful classmate — I'll be the first to admit that — but ever since meeting Harry… Well this is an almost embarrassingly romantic notion, but he seems to have softened my heart to ridiculous magnitudes, and I see now that as one who was born with greater intelligence—”

“You don't want to go there, Riddle,” Harry interrupts.

“Well, I suppose it's time I learnt to be more considerate of those less fortunate in certain aspects than I am, especially since Abraxas has been more than making up for my own… less than fortunate circumstances. As I was saying, I see now that as one who… is more privileged in the brain department—”

“ _Riddle._ ”

“As one who is more scholarly, then, it is only right to _invest_ , as Abraxas calls it, in some of my fellow snakes. Therefore, I assure you, this little study group Harry is organising is neither farce nor scheme, and I _will_ be upset should anyone approach me with questions regarding academic work outside of the sessions, and I will perceive that as a direct snub to Harry's attempts.” The haughty, ever-so-slight raising of his chin and narrowing of his eyes suggests an unspoken, _And there will be war_. Then, Riddle smiles, all charming and approachable — Harry didn't know that’s a possible look on the bastard, 'till this precise moment — and says, “Approach Felix to sign up, and the details will be settled after we get a rough feel of the consensus towards this project. It'll be open to _all_ Slytherins, and—”

“It wouldn't be very fair to the other Houses,” Hermione points out. “Between Tom and me, well, we're about all the half-competent students in the school's upper years.” And since when has Hermione been _that_ condescending? Alphard seems to be a bad influence on her.

(He does _not_ glare conspicuously at said Black; Slytherin Harry has got more tact and subtlety than that.)

“I say we open it to all students who wish to learn,” Hermione declares. “So the poor souls up in that tower of red-and-gold would also have opportunities to do well.”

“As you say,” Riddle concedes winningly. He turns and smiles at Harry then, all toothy and close-eyed. Vicious. “You done with dinner, love?” And he offers his arm.

(And _Merlin have mercy_ , what the fuck has Harry gotten himself into?)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm really amazed at the reception this fic has received ooof. Thank you so much to everyone who kudo-ed, commented, bookmarked or subscribed, it really means a lot to me. I'll do my best not to let anyone down :3


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